The Musical Project
by Amethyst Bubble
Summary: If someone had told the army that their reincarnations would be starring in a musical, they probably would have laughed. Unbeknownst to them, that's just what happened. [Featuring offstage slash, onstage het and actors who can't remember the lines.]
1. One Big Idea, Several Cups of Coffee

**Author's Notes**: Doubtlessly, if you've talked to me in the past few months, you've heard me at least mention this little thing. The musical project, I've called it, simply because I didn't have a title besides Fire Emblem: The Musical! …which, honestly, sounded like one of those fics where the game has been rewritten to include musical numbers. Nothing against those fics, but that's not what this is. Oh, no. This is… well, it's sorta-kinda an AU. There are more details about that below. Basically, it's (attempted) calmly-written crack. With a plot. And slash.

Doesn't that sound fun?

**Details**: A couple hundred years has passed on Elibe. A modern-like civilization has developed. On the theatre scene, an up-and-coming director/writer, Mark (yes, the reincarnation of _that_ Mark), starts working on a historical musical. The event it's based on? The journey of Eliwood's Elite. Unknowingly, Mark ends up with a cast consisting of the reincarnations of the actual Eliwood's Elite. He is unknowingly influenced by Ninian and Nils, who seem to be the only ones to remember their past lives.

**Disclaimer: **Pity, still don't own it.

---

**The Musical Project**

**Chapter One**

**By Amethyst Bubble**

---

Mark had to admit, it probably wasn't his greatest idea. After all, when he'd come up with it he'd gone two days without much more than an hour nap and was on his eleventh jumbo-sized mocha.

The idea had struck him like a bolt of lightning, effectively startling him out of his game of trying to find patterns in the cracks on his ceiling. Quickly, he scrambled for the large history book that propped up his coffee table.

Twenty minutes later found him laughing like a maniac. Later, he would look back and hope that the particular fit of madness had been due to all the coffee in his system.

He got up, fully intent on running to the library for more research materials-- ignoring the fact that it was currently three in the morning-- and promptly tripped over his cat.

The next morning, when he regained consciousness, he was pleased to find that he still remembered his idea and had not smooshed Mr. Fluffy.

---

"Well, I don't know…"

"I'm telling you, it could work!"

"But wouldn't you have to cut down on the story an awful lot? After all, it's such a **long **legend."

"…I, err, hadn't actually thought of that."

"…Oh."

"Wait, wait! We could skip over some parts of the story easily! I can make it work!"

"Mark, you'd have to fit this into a three hour play. Do you really think you could compress the story that much?"

"Well, yeah--"

"And still make it good, I mean."

"…Shut up."

"Well, at the very least it'll be amusing to see if you can pull this off."

"Ah, what does a kid know about the theatre anyway?"

"I didn't say it was a **bad** idea."

"Thanks."

"I didn't say it was good either."

"…Would you **please **just put your sister on the phone, Nils?"

---

"The journey of Eliwood's Elite?" Ninian repeated as she took a seat on Mark's ratty couch, a cup of ice tea cradled between her pale hands. "That's quite a tale, Mark."

A moment passed in silence. Mark's cat seemed more attentive to what she had to say than the young man himself. Ninian frowned.

"You know, it's not exactly easy for me to come visit you," she said, pushing a lock of her long hair behind her ear. "I have to find a sitter for Nils and he always complains about how he's too old to have a sitter. And he's technically right, but all the same, for the sake of appearances, I have to. And I could say anything at this moment because you're not listening to me at all. Mark, the pancakes are conspiring to eat all your clothes and leave you trapped and naked in this apartment."

"Hmm?" Mark hummed, not even bothering to look up from the large volume of history in his lap.

"Oh, let me see that." she pried the book from his hands and, marking his place with her index finger, flipped it back to the cover. "A history of Elibe… Oh, Mark, this book is nonsense. If you want a good account of Eliwood's Elite, you should have just asked me. You know that I'm an expert." _After all, _she thought to herself, _I was there._

Mark shrugged guiltily, an embarrassed smile on his face. "I… hadn't thought of that, actually. But, Ninian, what I really need is an in-depth account written by someone who was there! Not just a detailed overview!"

Silently, Ninian huffed, but she kept her expression calm and simply crossed her arms loosely as Mark continued.

"Are there any accounts of the events written down by, I don't know, someone who was there?" Mark ranted, taking out his frustration by yanking at his hair.

_**I **was there_, she thought incredulously, but kept her mouth shut on the subject.

"Because the history books are just so _vague_!" Mark moaned and, presumably imitating what he thought a history teacher sounded like, went on in a dry, flat tone, "And so Lord Eliwood of Pherae set out on a journey to find and retrieve his father, Lord Elbert, the marquis of Pherae. Along the way, he accumulated an army and ultimately ended up defeating the evil Nergal who planned to take over the world by summoning dragons."

"You skipped a lot of detail," Ninian pointed out. "Like how Nergal imprisoned and ultimately killed Lord Elbert, who helped the mysterious children escape. Or how Lord Eliwood joined forces with his longtime friend, Lord Hector of Ostia, and Lyndis, the granddaughter of the marquis of Caelin. Or the time Nino tried out Elfire for the first time and accidentally set your cloak on fire."

"…What?" Mark blinked. "Who? Cloak?"

Ninian fidgeted, mentally beating herself over the head for letting that slip. She hadn't even thought about it, she had just spit it out! Oh, that hadn't been smart. "Um," she looked for a way out. "I'm sorry, I've been reading this fascinating series of novels lately and I think I must have accidentally quoted one of them." She said it slowly and carefully, suddenly finding the arm of the sofa as interesting as that supposed series of novels.

It would be so much easier if Mark had remembered. That Nino thing should've have gotten a laugh, or at least a wince.

"…Oh." Mark said after a moment, disbelief dripping from his tone. Ninian put an extra ounce of innocence into her smile.

"So, you were saying…?" Ninian prompted, breaking the awkward silence. She folded her hands in her lap and tried to look attentive.

"I was saying," Mark's attention snapped back to his former topic and Ninian gave a little internal sigh of relief. "It's really a shame that there isn't a written account by someone who was actually in the army."

Ninian nodded. Then a realization hit her like a ton of bricks. Oh, the things you forgot after several hundred years… "There is."

"…There is? There is what?" Mark asked, confused.

Ninian leaned forward, "An account of the war written by someone who was there."

Mark just about fell off the sofa. "What? Who? Where can I get a copy of this?" he said all in a rush, leaning over the rickety coffee table to stare at Ninian with a mad hunger in his eyes.

"The tactician kept a detailed journal," Ninian explained with a small smile. Memories involving rants about dog-eared pages and smudged ink flooded her. "He even wrote a record of the travels of Lady Lyndis, the events that would eventually lead to her joining up with Lord Eliwood of Pherae."

"Oh, yes, yes, yes!" Mark jumped up, pumping a fist in the air. "What was his name? Are their copies in print? Can I buy it anywhere?"

Ninian held up a hand against the tirade of questions. "It hasn't been in print for several years, but I think I can get you a copy and you'll probably be surprised to hear that his name was Mark."

He blinked. "What, was I named after him or something?"

She pushed a few locks of long hair behind her ear, "Hmm, something like that."

---

Eleanora was certainly _surprised _when she first heard about it, but more and more she found the idea growing on her. In fact, she found herself rather wanting to be involved in the actual production.

"There are auditions taking place this weekend for the most interesting sounding play," she announced innocently enough to her husband and son one morning. The reactions she got were less than satisfactory. Elbert raised his newspaper up a little higher so that it hid his face, while Eliwood visibly paled.

"That's, uh, that's nice, mom," Eliwood said shortly. He then became extremely interested in his eggs.

Eleanora frowned a little bit. "The auditions are open to _everyone_," she said, pouring herself some more orange juice. Elbert's newspaper was raised just a tiny bit higher.

"Mom, you promised you'd stop after the last fiasco!" Eliwood exclaimed, his expression pained.

"All I'm saying is that maybe it would be fun to audition," Eleanora replied. "But if you don't want to…" she continued with a small sigh.

The angle at which Elbert's newspaper was now held _had _to be uncomfortable, Eliwood thought as he observed his father, but it did none the less shield him from the sad expression Eleanora wore. Eliwood swore to start reading during breakfast himself when the expression was turned on him.

"Mom," he said as steadily as he could. The look in her eyes was not making this easier. He started thinking of extra-nice Mother's Day gifts to squash the guilt. "I really, really don't want to audition."

He waited for the guilt trip.

"If you say so, dear."

…That was not it. Eliwood waited for another moment. Nothing. "…Really?" he finally asked, blinking. Elbert lowered the newspaper just a tad.

"Of course," Eleanora answered, focused on her breakfast now. The newspaper went down another inch. Eliwood's fork was frozen in mid-air. "It's your decision-- after all, you're not a child anymore."

There was a mumble of something that sounded a bit like "oh lord" from Elbert.

Eliwood's shocked expression slowly melted into a smile. "Well, thanks, mom." He was reaching for his glass of orange juice when her next remark, complete with wistfully sorrowful tone, cut through him like a knife.

"After all, you're almost all grown-up now… you'll be going off on your own soon, and you won't have me or your father around to assist you all the time."

Elbert's newspaper was once again converted into a shield, rendering Eliwood's pleading glances in his father's direction rather hopeless.

"Mom, don't," he tried, but it was useless.

"No, no, dear," Eleanora cut him off. "You should hear this. Like I said, your father and I can't really run your life any longer, not like when you were a child. And you were such a _cute _child, too."

"Mom, please…"

"I just hope I raised you _right_, what with all those times your father and I had to be away on business--" Elbert coughed from behind his paper-- "and sometimes I think I should've been home more. I guess it's too late now."

…_I'm going to give in, aren't I?_ Eliwood thought, vaguely panic-stricken underneath all the guilt. "Mom," he began, his remaining bits of independence mentally kicking him. "Do you want to go to the auditions this weekend?"

Eleanora practically beamed. "That would be lovely!" she exclaimed and fixed her husband with a look that Eliwood was sure could penetrate Elbert's paper shield. "You'll come too, won't you, Elbert? We'll make a day of it."

There was a pause and then Elbert's voice mumbled, "Yes, dear."

---

It was around noontime when Matthew wandered into the little coffee shop and, as usual, he was promptly ignored by the boy behind the counter. Well, he'd just have to do something about that, wouldn't he?

He quickly made his way over to the counter, blocking a customer from retrieving his cup of coffee. The customer, annoyed, reached around him and gave him a rude look while grabbing his coffee. After that, the man promptly stormed out.

"Aren't you going to say hello to me?" Matthew smiled winningly.

Guy looked like he wanted to throw the nearest cup of boiling milk at him. "You're blocking the customers, Matthew. And you were already in here once today. Why don't you ever, I-I don't know, _order something_?"

"Now why would I do that?" If it was possible, Matthew thought, Guy would have set him on fire with that look.

"See those people?" Guy hissed, leaning forward. "Those are customers. They wait on a long line and then they pay good money for things. Now get out of their way!"

Matthew blinked and took one small step to the side. Guy silently fumed, knowing that that was as reasonable as the other man was going to get.

"Do you want anything in particular?" he asked as he finished taking an order.

Matthew drummed his fingers on the counter, looking perfectly innocent. Guy's suspicions only grew. "I may have a nice piece of news for you…"

"Y-Yeah? Like what?" Guy had the urge to take a large step backwards and he probably would have if it wouldn't have meant bumping into his rather scary coworker.

"Hmm, then again, you might not be interested," Matthew said with a glance at the ceiling. Guy got the urge to throw something at him again.

"Matthew," he tried not to whine. "That's not fair!"

"What does fair have to with it?" Though Matthew's smile stayed innocent, the smirk was more than evident in his voice.

"You w-waltz in here," Guy lowered his voice. "You don't order anything and you hold up the line! You're probably trying to get me _fired_ and even then you won't tell me what you came in here to tell me in the first place? You're--you're going to drive me crazy!"

The chuckle Matthew gave implied that, yes, that had been his intention all along. "Alright, alright, don't tear your hair out," he paused. Guy glowered. Matthew figured that just because Guy hadn't thrown scalding coffee in his face yet didn't mean he wouldn't so he'd better start talking. "Open auditions for a Broadway play this weekend."

Guy gave Matthew a blank stare. "…So?"

"I thought you might want to audition." Matthew suggested with a cheery grin.

"Well," Guy huffed, busying himself with actually doing his job and making some coffee. "You're wrong. I'm not interested and I don't want to."

"If you get a part, it would pay a lot."

Guy paused, a look of dawning realization on his face. "…H-how much?"

"A lot," Matthew repeated, keeping it simple.

Guy was quiet for a moment as he handed a customer her coffee. "It--It doesn't matter anyway. I can't act."

"Sure you can," the older man replied, eyes dancing. "You're good at it, too. Every time your manager pops in between her cigarette breaks and I pretend to be actually interested in the purchasing of coffee? The way you pretend not to hate my guts is brilliant. Sometimes, I can't even hear you grinding your teeth!"

The dark-haired boy glowered. "That's not funny!"

"What's the harm in trying?" Matthew asked, propping his elbow up on the countertop.

"Well, none, I guess," Guy consented with a small sigh. "But you h-have to audition too!" When Matthew's eyebrows rose, a just slightly flustered Guy continued, "Well, it w-was your idea in the f-first place, so it's only fair!"

"Fair, eh?" Matthew appeared to be giving it thought. "Well, I guess after all the times I've tormented and tortured you… Fine." He grinned, and suddenly Guy wasn't so sure if demanding Matthew audition as well was such a good idea.

---

Nino knew she was in trouble when she saw the look on her mother's face. It wasn't the dreaded "you didn't get the part, you untalented brat!" look, luckily. Instead, it was more of a manic gleam in Sonia's golden eyes, one that made Nino want to turn tail and hide behind someone. Like Linus or Lloyd or Legault. Unfortunately, none of them happened to be around at the moment.

"Nino, come here."

Not wanting to disappoint, Nino immediately did as she was told and scurried over to Sonia's side. "Yes, mother?" she asked, wide-eyed.

Sonia's eyes glinted again and she reached out, hesitated a moment, and then patted Nino on the head in a very slow manner, as if doing so actually pained her. "Nino, I have a new audition lined up for you."

"Oh!" Nino's attention was instantly captured. She bounced up and down on her heels a bit, "What for? Is it another commercial?" She liked doing commercials; usually, she got to gesture dramatically towards the product in question, which was always fun.

Sonia made a face; her opinion of commercials was obviously quite different from Nino's. "No, none of _those_…" she flapped a hand, as if shooing the very notion from the room. "What I'm talking about is the _theatre_. One show there will get us more recognition than a dozen little commercial spots."

"Theatre…" Nino repeated dubiously. "Like, as in a play? But I've never been in a play before!"

"That hardly matters," Sonia answered with a toss of her hair. Her dark curls tumbled over her shoulders, standing out against the stark white of her low cut blouse. "There are auditions this weekend. You're going."

"O…okay!" Nino agreed and, despite the butterflies that flapped around in her stomach over the prospect of new territory, she was excited. And then, curiosity overwhelming, she asked, "What's the play going to be about?"

---

Nergal was just thinking about how much he enjoyed tea-- the real kind, mind you, that you needed a strainer for or else you got a mouthful of leaves, not the kind in the bag-- when Ephidel entered his study carrying a folded piece of paper.

"How goes your writing?" he asked Nergal, eyeing the stack of note-cards piled up on the desk and the laptop in the older gentleman's lap.

"Oh, lovely," Nergal responded flatly. "Provided that I can get this damned machine to ever turn on again and get over my addiction of scribbling designs for gigantic, yet collapsible and therefore portable, catapults."

Ephidel just stared.

"Enough of that," Nergal coughed, dramatically sweeping the pile of note-cards off his desk. Ephidel thought he saw a sketch of a bunny in a field of daisies, but it was quickly disappeared into the rest of the pile rapidly forming at the foot of Nergal's chair. "Where is your sister?"

"Limstella offered to drive Denning to his speech therapy session," Ephidel explained.

"Ah," Nergal made an appreciative sound. They lapsed into silence for a moment before Nergal spoke up again, idly prodding at his keyboard. "Was there something you wanted?"

Ephidel seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Well," he finally began. "It's just like Sonia said when she last visited. This writing business isn't for you! You've been saying you're going to write the greatest novel Elibe has ever seen for eleven and a half years now. You could get back into the theatre easily, if you'd just make the effort--"

"The theatre is dead!" Nergal announced, bringing his hand down on the desk with a terrific bang. A moment later, he drew his stinging hand back and tried to think of ways to emphasize his points that weren't quite so painful. "Sonia should know that. What is that girl of hers currently doing, anyway? Still those silly commercials?"

"She's been doing those silly commercials for well over five years now," Ephidel noted.

Nergal shook his head, a look of disapproval on his face. "It's about time she stopped! What is she now, twenty? Twenty-five?"

Ephidel interrupted before Nergal could make another far off guess. "She just turned fourteen, father. You had Limstella send her a card."

"Well, how am I supposed to remember things like that? It's not like Sonia ever brings the girl over…"

Ephidel started to remind Nergal that Sonia had just brought Nino over for a visit two weeks ago, but figured that it was useless.

"Father, Sonia just had this delivered. You should probably look about it, because she'll never let it go otherwise…" he held out the sheet of paper, waiting patiently for Nergal to take it.

With a scowl, Nergal took the offered sheet and scanned it for a moment. "A musical?" he spat after a moment, looking disgusted. "Sonia expects me to take part in one of _those_? Does she know who I am? I took part in some of the finest productions of this century, and she expects me to--!" He was abruptly cut off when the phone rang. "Ephidel, get that annoying contraption, would you?"

With a long suffering sigh, Ephidel reached over and grabbed the phone from Nergal's desk. "Yes, hello?" he listened for a moment and then wordlessly shoved the phone towards Nergal. "It's Sonia."

"Good lord, what is she, psychic? I swear, she got that from her mother's side…" Nergal grumbled, taking the phone. "Hello, Sonia. Yes, Sonia, I got your letter… Yes, Sonia, I did read it. No, Sonia, I will most certainly not be participating." There was a considerable pause. Several feet away, Ephidel was able to catch most of Sonia's response.

"_You're letting your name go to waste! Your talent! I remember when the Black Fang theatre group was at the top of the industry! Besides, this musical is going to be about your favorite legend. How many times did I hear you say that you'd love to be in a production about it? This ridiculous phase about writing a book has got to end! You belong on the stage."_

"You'd better do as she says," Ephidel whispered. "You know you'll never hear the end of it if you don't."

Not for the first time, Nergal regretted having children.

---

Serra had been singing ever since she had heard the news. In the shower, walking down the street, talking on the phone, before bed. Every waking moment, save for when she was eating (she was too much of a lady to talk with her mouth full), she was singing. Out loud, under her breath, sometimes even humming… she just wouldn't stop.

It was driving Erk insane. He had told her so repeatedly. She either didn't care, or couldn't hear him over the sound of her own voice. He was willing to bet on option number two, though he was pretty sure that even if she had heard him, she wouldn't have stopped.

"Serra!" he had finally been reduced to screaming when she had started a rhyming recount of her day. Apparently, he had been loud enough that even Wil had looked up from where he had been chattering excitedly to Rath. Serra, annoyed at the interruption, finished her line and hummed under her breath, a sign that Erk was allowed to momentarily interrupt her song. He cleared his throat.

"Serra," he began again, softer this time. He was all too aware of the fact that Wil and Rath were now staring at him in addition to Serra's sharp violet gaze. "Please, please stop singing. Just for a little while. I'll pay you." He added the last part as her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"But I must exercise my singing voice!" Serra sang in reply. "If I'm to get a part, I simply have no choice!"

Erk banged his head against the table two times. He was starting to think that one of the vilest things in the world was rhyming. Serra watched him with something akin to joy.

Erk stopped banging his head somewhere around the time Priscilla walked in, Serra noted with mild annoyance. She decided to lift her spirits with yet more singing.

"Here comes Priscilla! Will she order coffee with vanilla?"

Priscilla gave Serra a blank look, sitting down in an empty chair. "Has she been…?" she trailed off, giving Erk a curious look.

"Yes. All day." He mumbled, giving Serra the evil eye. The pink-haired girl gave him a bright smile in return, lapsing into a spree of humming.

It took Erk a moment to realize that he had started humming along. A look of horror crossed his face and he quickly began to bang his head against the table again. Priscilla, trying to hold back a giggle, gave him a comforting pat on the arm.

---

Auditions began the next day. Underneath the all the jumping-off-the-walls-couldn't-keep-still excitement, Mark was vaguely nervous. Only vaguely. The fact that he had chewed off a good deal of his fingernails and had rearranged all his books and furniture was completely unrelated.

His cat watched him pace from atop the kitchen counter, one amber eye fixed on his restless form. The feline was giving his owner a look that distinctly said, "What are you doing, you ridiculous human? Stop that and get me tuna."

Mark paused, then swung himself on top of the counter and moved his legs back and forth, trying to work off excess energy. He glanced at the clock. Two in the morning, it read in bright letters. He sighed. He really should get to sleep, but he was too excited. Too excited and just not at all nervous.

Not one bit.

He wondered absently if the first batch of actors would be any good. Would any of them fit the rather distinctive parts? It was a large cast, after all. They needed a good deal of actors. Good actors, too. He really wanted this show to make a splash.

He had no idea what would unfold.

---

To Be Continued

---

…DUN DUN DUN. Aha, yeah. Nothing much happened in this chapter. But that's mainly because it was written in a rush. I still haven't packed for my vacation and we leave early tomorrow. I should go do that, after I type up the rest of this.

**Important Notes: **Some of the theatre-stuff is almost certainly wrong, because my research skills? They suck and they're lazy. But let's just remember-- this is the Elibe theatre-scene, not actual Broadway. Except it sort of is. Now I'm confusing myself. Never mind.

_Looking for crackish, cheesy lyrics, please!_ I have most of the music that I need, but I'm still looking for lyrics for the following plot points: The arrival at Dragon's Gate/Elbert's death (melodrama would be appreciated with that one), the group's first meeting with Athos, the defeat of Nergal and/or the fire dragon. If anyone wants to write these for me, please do so and e-mail or PM them to me. It'd be most appreciated. Thank you very much to everyone who has already submitted lyrics!

And I don't think I had anything else to say, so, as always, reviews are very appreciated, so please leave one. I'm offering invisible cookies again!


	2. The Journal and the Triangle of Love

**Author's Notes**: I'd say this took so much longer than I'd planned, but I usually say something like that so I'll just shut up on that subject. Thank you all so much for your reviews-- they made me grin and laugh and just generally feel warm and fuzzy inside. Plus, the sheer number made my jaw drop. You guys are fantastic! I hope you continue to enjoy the fic in all its cracktasticness. Also, please don't hurt me for the love triangle that is introduced in this chapter. Also, like the last chapter, this one kind of jumps about a bit, skipping some large chunks of time. This will probably stop happening once everything-- including the musical itself-- is on more solid ground, which should be within the next few chapters.

(**A Note to Caellach Tiger's Eye: **Thank you for reading and enjoying despite the presence of slash! Also, I PMed you about this, but I'm not sure if you got it, so I'll answer your question here as well. It would be great if you did a version for Sacred Stones-- I'd love to see it-- but please credit me with the original idea, thanks.)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones. I probably don't own anything else I made reference to, either.

**In this chapter: **A disgruntled pigeon, a journal full of doodles, one tangle of a love triangle, some coffee and dreams of authenticity in regards to giant lizards.

**---**

**The Musical Project**

**Chapter Two**

**By Amethyst Bubble**

**---**

It was one of those perfect mornings. There was a shining sun, a cloudless blue sky and an abundance of chirping birds. It was warm and people lined the streets, talking and laughing. A pair of lovers passed by with their hands clasped, whispering sweet nothings to each other.

Except, Mark thought, whispering wasn't exactly the right term, seeing as they were being both obnoxiously loud and unbearably mushy. It wasn't a fun combination.

Everything was getting on Mark's nerves that morning. He had gone to bed too late, woken up too late and it currently looked like he'd be getting to the auditions too late.

_Some director you are_, the nasty part of his mind sneered.

_Get a damn alarm clock, _the logical side hissed.

_Do we have time to stop for a caffeinated beverage of some sort?_ the sleepy side moaned groggily.

"Shut up, I don't need one, no!" Mark grumbled his answers out loud. The mushy couple, only a few steps ahead of him, turned and blinked, wondering who he had been talking to. Mark turned pink and dashed by, pulling the hood of his green jacket over his head.

"Note to self," he hissed under his breath as he doubled back to turn the corner he had nearly missed. "Dear self, stop talking to self in public… like I'm doing right now. Really, I mean it, stop. It's weird."

As if to verify that yes, it was quite weird, a mother herded her children to the other side of the street, throwing Mark a wary glance over her shoulder.

"This should be my day," Mark sighed regretfully. "Auditions start today and it just should be one of those good days. But it's not going to be, is it?"

From the top of a tree, a pigeon hooted. Its tone was distinctly mocking.

"Oh, shut up," Mark told it, glaring.

---

The auditions (or as Erk had come to know it in his short time there, the center of chaos, evil and general madness) were packed with people. A few he recognized from his acting classes, others from popular programs and movies. Yet more were strangers to him, all but blending in with the crowd.

He was pretty sure he'd seen the girl from those annoying grape juice commercials with that pair of brothers from whatever that new teen show was. He'd never really cared enough to pick up their names from amidst Serra's pop culture ramblings.

He was looking around idly, wondering when Serra herself would make her grand entrance, when his grandfather's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Who," Athos asked in a hushed voice, "is _she_?"

Erk squinted at a blue-haired woman in the distance. "Her?" he recalled Serra's idle chit-chat vaguely. "I think she was in a mini-series last year… won an award. Isadora-something."

"No, no," Athos shook his head, gesturing to a woman a little while off from Isadora. "_Her_."

The woman he pointed at was short and just a bit hunched over, the lines of age clear on her face. Her hair was long, gray and braided. At that moment she laughed, a dry sort of cackle, and a shiver of dread went up Erk's spine.

"Her?" the young man checked, just to make sure. Athos nodded, seemingly enraptured.

"She's _enchanting_," Athos murmured. His eyes followed the woman as she took a few steps over to the rickety refreshment table that had been shoved into a foreboding corner. None too subtly, she tipped a tray full of cheese and crackers into her large purse.

"I must speak with her," Athos continued and Erk really hoped that this was all some sort of warm-up acting exercise.

"Her?" Erk made double sure, sneaking another look as two apples and a pear disappeared into the woman's bag.

"There's an air of mystery about her…" Athos mused, stroking his beard.

"Would that mystery have anything to do with her stealing food?" Erk raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms across his chest. He was promptly ignored.

"There's a story behind her wise eyes," Athos commented in a way that was scarily dreamy and Erk wondered exactly how much of an impact the elderly man's ten year stint on a soap opera had had on him. He took a moment to squint at the woman's eyes. They looked kind of sneaky and just a tad sinister. He repressed another shiver. If there was a story there, he was pretty sure that it fell into the horror genre.

"I…" Erk started to say something, then thought better of it. This conversation could only spiral downward so, he realized, it was probably best to get out of it while he could still think straight. "I think I'm going to go find Louise."

He backed away slowly, not that Athos seemed to notice, so enraptured was he by the woman across the room who, thankfully, seemed to be done stuffing edibles into her handbag.

"ACK--!"

To his credit, Erk did not jump a foot in the air when he was suddenly tackled from behind. (It was only about seven inches. Really more like six and a half, if one was to be precise…)

He heard giggling from behind him and found that the fingernails of the hands so casually wrapped around his neck were painted lavender. He put two and two together and quickly identified his attacker.

"When did you get here, Serra?" he attempted to pry her off of him. In reply, she propped her chin up on his shoulder.

"Oh, just a little while ago," she hummed. "It's crowded, isn't it? Luckily, there's going to have to be a big cast… and hey, I'm fantastic, right?" she cast a shining grin at him.

"Yes, yes, wonderful in every way, except for the tackling bit, so please get off now," Erk scowled. Serra sighed dramatically but released her stranglehold on Erk, dancing around until she stood face-to-face with him.

"See that guy over there?" Serra pointed to a rather scrawny looking young man in a green jacket. He seemed busy brushing pigeon feathers out of his hair. "_That's _the man who came up with this whole thing. So, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go make a good impression!"

With a short wave, she weaved her way through the crowd. Erk sighed and rubbed at his temples. _This_, he thought, _is going to be a very long afternoon. _

He tried to ignore the niggling feeling in the back of his mind that told him he was far too young to be thinking in such a way.

---

Hannah was many things. In her youth, she had been a tap dancing prodigy, quickly making her way onto the theatre scene in her teenage years. She had been Elibe's sweetheart, the center of the stage, the spotlight always on her.

She'd been a _star_.

Then, as quickly as the attention had flocked to her, it left, gone chasing after some young starlet who fit into the leotard a bit better and was willing to dance for a little less.

She had persevered, though. She was tough. She was strong. She had a knack for fortune telling. She bought herself a crystal ball and one of those nifty phones with all the extra features and within a week, her psychic hotline was going strong.

Now, in the middle of liberating a cheese platter, her eyes caught on the one she knew to be her soul mate. The apple of her eye. The man she planned to wed.

There he was, surrounded by a ray of light. Even after he stepped out from under the light bulbs, the warm glow of his beautiful aura shown out in every direction. She resisted the urge to melodramatically shield her eyes and swoon.

He was a perfect specimen of manliness, save for that horrific turban. Then again, where was the fun if there was nothing to improve on after you'd snagged them? Other than the turban, though, he was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Perfect and wearing fur. Nice fur. From the way he was dressed, he obviously had money. Hannah's eyes lit up.

"_Now don't get me wrong," _she began to compose a chapter of her next best-selling novel, _How I Met the Love of My Life on the Day I Regained My Fame_ (not exactly a short title, but it was an eye-catcher. She'd shorten it to HIMtLoMLotDIRMF in her notes.) _"Money isn't everything girls, oh no. Personality and looks are very important. But a little green lining the pockets certainly doesn't hurt. Plus, I like a man who can afford expensive birthday presents. Like, say, diamonds. I happen to think I look ravishing in diamonds."_

She paused to consider the diamonds for a moment, a dreamy grin breaking out over her face.

---

Nergal would never admit it but, he thought as he shrugged his fur coat closer over his shoulders, it felt good to be at an audition again. Of course, there was no doubt in his mind that he would get the noble role he sought after. He was Nergal! The actor of the century, or so _The Bern Times_ had declared exactly twenty-seven years, eight months and two weeks ago when he'd brought the Black Fang Theatre's production of _And Fire Fell: Tales of the Scouring_ to the poor deprived country.

So, his lucky turban perched proudly on his noble brow, he waited for his turn to audition and watched the (rather sad) competition. His eyes caught on several people as he scanned the crowd.

Then, as if drawn by some magnetic force, his eyes caught on _him_. It was instant, like a bolt of lightening, and in that moment he just _knew_.

It was nothing like the way he had felt when he had met his first wife. She had been a splendid woman with a heart as black as coal. He remembered her fondly and there first meeting would always have a special place in his mind. The Dragon Lady had been his pet name for her, until that one comedy show had ruined it.

Meeting her had been like meeting a slightly inferior version of himself (he was Nergal, after all, actor of the century as proclaimed by _The Bern Times_, etc., etc… No one was his equal). She had been roughly seven eighths the evil he was and a closer match he would have been hard pressed to find. Oh, how he had adored her wicked ways.

Unfortunately, his second wife had been a poor replacement, barely registering at half his vileness. Plus, she'd had horrid fashion sense.

His third wife? He shuddered at the thought. The woman practically did charity work. Needless to say, that had been a quick marriage.

Ah, but now he was digressing. Back to the point; it was nothing like when he had met his first wife. That had been a recognition of her power, her dark will. It had been a matter of pure interest, like one ram sizing the other up before they clashed horns.

This was a matter of what he could only describe as magnetic attraction.

He sincerely hoped he wasn't salivating.

Discreetly wiping the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, just in case, Nergal let his eyes sweep over the man in question. Why hadn't he realized before how attractive white hair and long beards were? And was it getting a little hot in this theatre?

Nergal reached to adjust his fur coat at the exact same moment he noticed the _People for Ethical Treatment of Animals Both Magical and Not_ button pinned to the newly found object of his affection's sweater.

Damnit.

---

The tactician's journal was extremely helpful, Mark found. He flipped through the pages of the copy Ninian had attained for him, noting with interest that the entries were extremely detailed, down to what the weather had been like and how many enemies they'd faced in battle.

There were also some very detailed complaints involving capes and fire.

He was surprised and delighted to find that this tactician had kept detailed descriptions of his army, writing about their personalities with enthusiasm. Here and there, the journal was smattered with a few rough sketches. Mark was glad that they had been preserved in the copies. The tactician of Eliwood's Elite had not been the greatest artist, to say the least, but it gave him something to go on.

He glanced at the headshots of the actors who had made his call-back list as he set the tactician's journal back on the coffee table. He contemplated them for a moment before he picked up a stack and flipped through them.

Suddenly, he stopped. The smug smile of a young girl stared up at him and he could have _sworn _he'd seen those pigtails before.

"Let's see," he said to himself. Across the room his cat looked up with a sleepy yawn. He looked over the actress' information, humming to himself. So she'd tried out for the role of Ninian, the tragic heroine… he contemplated this.

"She doesn't look very tragic," he finally concluded, giving the photo a scrutinizing look. His cat let out a short "meow" of agreement. Or maybe it was a cry for food-- Mark wasn't too sure.

He stared at the headshot for a moment longer, still positive that he had seen those pigtails somewhere. They stuck in his head like glue (or maybe peanut butter, some corner of his mind suggested).

Then that good old light bulb went off over his head and the gears started turning. A few headshots escaped his grasp, scattering here and there as he lunged for the tactician's journal, sitting innocently on his coffee table.

Mark flipped through the pages with a manic excitement. This was too good to be true, the pessimist in him whispered tauntingly. He was probably just imagining things, it continued to hiss. Mark conjured up a mental image of himself smothering pessimistic-him with a pillow and turned another few pages hurriedly.

After a moment, he found it and propped his feet up on the coffee table.

There she was, pigtails and smug smile included. "Serra", a note scrawled underneath the drawing said. He gained from the entry above that she was a cleric from Ostia, and a rather outspoken, self-confident one at that.

He glanced at the information of her modern-day look alike. Her first name stared up at him, and the coincidence was just too much for him. "Serra", it read, printed clearly and neatly.

It was too good to be true.

In the coming hours, Mark would find a good few dozen things that were too good to be true.

---

Ninian really wished she could get used to the phone calls at two in the morning. They were an occupational hazard of knowing modern day Mark, she had discovered.

She was pretty sure she liked it better all those years ago when they didn't have technology and he would have had to leave his warm, comfy tent to talk to someone. Those were the days, she said to herself as she simultaneously picked up the phone and tried to brush her hair, a mess of blue tangled from sleep, out of her face.

"Hello?" she murmured. Somewhere in the house, she thought she heard Nils' exasperated groan. He'd probably been woken up by the shrill ring of the phone.

Even though she knew it was Mark, she briefly entertained the idea that a telemarketer had lost track of the time. The telemarketer would say hello, and mispronounce her name, then try to sell her something or get her to donate money. She'd say no thanks and hang up. It be short and sweet.

"Ninian? Ninian! It's the most insane thing!"

She leaned back against the pillows, folding one arm under her head. Mark sounded like he'd just had a large cup of coffee. She prepared for a long conversation.

Ninian liked it better when caffeine wasn't so readily available either.

"What is?" she tried to suppress a yawn.

"The names, Ninian! The names!" Mark said excitedly and Ninian was pretty sure she heard noises of the indignant feline sort from across the line. "I, I-- I don't actually know what to say, but, Ninian, you have to see this for yourself."

"Mark," she said calmly, looking up at her dark bedroom ceiling. "Can't you just tell me for now? What is it?"

"A lot of the actors-- the really good ones who'd be perfect-- have the _same names as the characters_." He stressed the end of his sentence and she could almost see his wide grin.

Ninian took a moment to wonder if maybe, just maybe, a couple of the people who had auditioned could be the reincarnations of the soldiers she'd known so long ago. Maybe they'd been drawn there by some force, something like a giant magnet, something bigger than them all.

Then she realized that while she had been in the middle of her dramatic thoughts, Mark had still been talking. She concentrated hard on what he was saying now.

"And they look like them too, as far as I can tell from those drawings in the journal. I mean, right down to hair styles!" he panted, then took a deep breath, like he had forgotten to pause in the middle of his ramble. "It's really weird, Ninian, but I think it's some sort of sign, like I was meant to do this play-- and, okay, that sounds ridiculous. I'm sorry. It's really late, isn't it?"

"Not really," she lied and desperately tried to muffle a yawn. "Only a little," she said after a brief pause.

"Okay," Mark said after a moment. "I'm sorry, it's just-- it's just sort of amazing. I'm having a hard time believing it. I might actually be dreaming, which would be incredibly disappointing. It would make more sense, though. It's a little too good to be true."

"I'm pretty sure you're not dreaming," she commented lightly, tucking one long lock of hair behind her ear.

From across the line, she could hear Mark take a deep breath, as if steadying himself. It was another few seconds before he spoke again. "It started with this one girl," he spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully and precisely. "I wasn't really going to pay much attention to her. She wasn't right for the role. But it was her hair, I couldn't get it out of my head, like I'd seen it before. I had, in the journal. There's a doodle, of the cleric, Serra, and it looks exactly like her. The actress, I mean," he clarified. "Ninian, her name _is _Serra."

Ninian's eyes fluttered shut for a second. She could see Serra as she was, clear as day against her eyelids. She swore she could still see sparks from that terrifically terrifying Shine spell the pigtailed girl had once cast.

"How remarkable," she said, opening her eyes once again. For a second, she thought she saw the glimmer of sunlight on pink hair. The next moment, it was only her ceiling again, a blank expanse above her head.

"Yeah," Mark agreed. He chuckled and she smiled a bit, thinking that it was good to hear laughter. "You know what role she tried out for originally?" he asked her.

"No," she shook her head slightly, even though he couldn't see the movement. "What role?"

"The tragic heroine, Ninia--" he stopped abruptly. She blinked, wondering what had made him go silent. Then realization hit her.

"Mark," she said, sitting up in bed. "Mark," she repeated, her tone a warning.

"_Ninian_."

She slumped forward, bringing her knees up to her chest. He had that spark in his voice, the one that meant that she was could not get out of this, no matter what she tried.

What a pity. She'd been almost looking forward to seeing someone else play her story.

---

Leila gave a grateful smile and a small "thanks" when Guy set a steaming mocha in front of her.

"What, nothing for me?" Matthew asked, putting on an expression of heartbreak and hurt. Leila gave Guy a look of sympathy over the top of her cup.

"She paid for hers," Guy pointed out, gesturing to Leila. The red-headed woman confirmed this fact with a nod.

With a sigh that went on far too long-- Leila shook her head from side to side while Guy smacked a hand to his forehead in frustration-- Matthew dug some money out of his pocket and held it up to Guy. "What can I get for this, then?"

Matthew's smirk grew a little as Guy counted the money. He replaced it with a small smile, devoid of all smugness and schemes, as soon as the younger looked up.

"Matthew," he said with a slightly desperate look. "This-- this isn't fair!"

Leila quirked an eyebrow. Matthew leaned back, putting an extra ounce of charm into his smile. "Well?" he said silkily.

Guy scowled, his left eyebrow twitching just a little bit. "I can," he paused and counted the money again, before looking up uncertainly. "I can give you… a third of a cup of plain c-coffee for this?"

"That's fine," Matthew answered innocently. He watched with amusement as Guy turned and stormed off, grumbling something inaudable.

"One day, when he finally snaps and bludgeons you over the head with the nearest heavy object, I might just laugh," Leila declared once Guy was out of earshot. "Matthew, I think this is bordering on third grade crush territory now. You don't pull his hair, do you?"

"He makes it too easy, braiding it like that!" Matthew defended himself. Leila rolled her eyes and drummed her fingernails on table's polished surface.

"Look," she said, giving him a pointed look, suddenly serious. "I'd just like to know, that's all. He'd probably like to know why you torture him so, too."

"Leila, we've been over this," Mathew cut her off before she could say anything else. He stared over her head, putting a little too much effort into looking out the coffee shop windows. He seemed about to continue when a cup of coffee was unceremoniously plunked down in front of him. A few hot drops splattered over the table. Leila grabbed a napkin, reaching over to wipe up the spill, but Matthew snatched it out of her hand and did it himself.

"This is a full cup," he observed, crumpling up the damp napkin. He looked at Guy with a curious expression.

Guy fidgeted, eyes fixed on his own feet. "Yeah, well," he muttered, straightening his apron. "Well, I, err… you can't actually get just a third of a cup. It's, uh, against the rules. Or something." He took a deep breath and raised his gaze from the floor, glowering at Matthew. "Count yourself lucky this time-- next time, I w-won't get you coffee at all."

"Wouldn't want you to go without that, Matthew," Leila teased, grinning coyly. The look Guy gave her clearly stated that she was some sort of hero. "So, the callbacks are supposed to be tomorrow," she announced, changing the subject effortlessly. "Do you think any of us stand a shot?"

"You auditioned too, Leila?" Guy blinked. "I didn't see you there."

"Sure she did. For the part of a villain, even," Matthew grinned.

"I like a role with lots of drama," she leaned back in her chair and smiled her most devious smile.

Matthew gestured to a third, empty chair at their small table. "Take a seat, Guy."

"I c-can't," he stuttered, throwing a look over his shoulder at the counter. One of his coworkers was staring blankly at a brightly colored poster on the wall. The poster itself proclaimed, in very big and bright letters, that the Lycian Latte™ was back (but only for a limited amount of time).

Matthew sighed, grabbed Guy by the sleeve and pulled him into the chair, ignoring the other's indignant little squeak. He patted Guy's shoulder in a patronizing way.

"There, isn't that better?" Matthew pointedly ignored Guy's venomous glare.

_Boys_, Leila thought to herself as she watched Guy stutter out an insult. She contented herself with a long sip of coffee.

---

The callback additions, as far as Mark was concerned, were a major success. For the most part, he paid close attention to the roles he was a little unsure of. (None of the actors seemed to fit the Black Fang traitor Legault, for instance, and he hadn't found a suitable Vaida, the powerful wyvern lord…) For the others, he watched every few moments. Most of the time, he took notes on half a dozen different subjects, from costumes to scenery to…

Wyverns.

It was insane. He knew that much. It was insane and impractical and a huge fire hazard.

Still, he had dreams. Dreams of authenticity. Dreams of giant lizards.

Occasionally, his dreams made him worry, but he told himself that things would be fine. It wasn't like he would be the first director to use live wyverns in a production. They could get trained ones, complete with a handler who would make sure that things went smoothly. The permits might be difficult to get, but he was a whiz with paperwork. He'd already gotten the licenses for the pegasi, after all.

Really, if he was going to have pretty flying horses, why shouldn't he have huge scaly dragons? They would balance each other out, like yin and yang-- so long as the Great Pegasi Versus Wyverns Tragedy of two years ago didn't repeat itself.

In the big picture, having wyverns on stage wasn't the problem.

Getting them to the stage was.

He knew there were reservations where tame wyverns were protected by law. He knew that, occasionally, those wyverns were used in certain productions, providing there was a large enough donation involved. But Mark was on a budget and even if he cut out some of the big name actors he was so set on having, he could not provide them with that sort of money.

He had thought briefly about using his own money, but he'd done the calculations and figured that it would be impossible if he wanted to eat some time in the next eight months.

Plus, his cat wouldn't be too happy if he went back to buying the cheap food. An unhappy cat meant that he didn't escape without major flesh wounds.

Ninian, sitting beside him and looking rather melancholy, was the person he turned to for ideas. It only made sense; she was smart. Smart, and very close by. It was a good combination.

Her jaw dropped open. For a second, she resembled a fish. "Wyverns?" she said, looking up for the first time that day. "You want… wyverns? Real ones?"

A short distance away, a tall man with long purple hair straightened up. Though his eyes were still trained on the green-haired girl on stage, he listened in closely.

"Isn't that a safety hazard?" Ninian continued, looking apprehensive and concerned. Mark was pretty sure that it in fact was one, but he waved it off as if it weren't.

"No need to worry," he said, puffing out his chest a bit. He hoped it looked manly, but that nagging voice in the back of his mind reminded him that whenever he'd tried it in the mirror he'd looked like a chicken with a slight attitude problem.

The look Ninian gave him clearly stated that she was going to worry whether he liked it or not.

"…They'd be tame? I mean, in my mind, err, my plans, they'd be… uh… tame." He withered under her gaze, sinking into his seat with a little cough. He shuffled his papers and stared at the stage with determination. He could feel her eyes like they were burning a hole just above his ear.

"Tame wyverns?" Ninian said, her tone that of a skeptic. Mark imagined the look on her face, somewhere between surprised and disbelieving. "Well… maybe. Where would you get them, though?"

"I might be able to help," a smooth voice said from above them. Mark looked up from the stage to meet the sharp grey gaze of the newcomer.

"Oh yeah?" Mark was torn between being overjoyed at the prospect of help and being suspicious because… well, the guy just looked kind of suspicious. He licked his dry lips and waited expectantly.

"And you are?" Ninian put in, leaning over Mark to get a better look.

"Legault," he answered with a charming smile. "I have a… connection to a well known wyvern preservation. I'm sure we could work something out." Something in his eyes glimmered. Mark stopped staring at the impressive scars that marred one side of the other man's face long enough to be suspicious.

"What's the catch?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Legault's smile grew a little bit wider.

---

"I don't believe you," Heath said, smacking a hand to his forehead. It wasn't true; he did believe it. He had absolutely no problem believing it. Still, he didn't _want _to.

"What would you have done?" Legault raised an eyebrow.

"Not that," Heath answered from between gritted teeth. He placed one hand on the glass that separated them from the huge beasts on the other side. "I honestly don't know what to tell you."

"Tell me something good," Legault sighed. He reached over and placed a hand on Heath's shoulder, massaging lightly. "Look, I know this is a little… unreasonable."

Heath snorted. "It's a lot of that."

Legault cut him off before he could say anything else on the subject, "I did it for Nino. Do you know how happy she's going to be when she finds out she got that role?"

Heath stared at him for a moment before groaning, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. "Really, really happy." He paused for a second. "I hate you, you know that? I hate you. She might have gotten the role already, you know. I've seen her act, she's _good_."

"I considered that," Legault nodded. "A little extra insurance never hurt, though."

Heath found it hard to argue with that. He let out a miserable little groan from between clenched teeth.

Legault very nearly grinned.

"I'm not promising anything," Heath said quickly, holding up a hand. "I _can't _promise anything, I'm not in charge here. But I'll try and work something out, okay?"

"That's all I ever asked," Legault answered.

Heath kind of wanted to punch him.

---

To Be Continued

---

Thank you all very much for reading and I hope you're enjoying the fic! …And haven't been completely scared off by the love triangle. I'd say it wasn't my fault, but it totally is. I'm having far too much fun writing this and I hope everyone is enjoying reading it!

_I plead for cheesy, crackish lyrics again! _They'd be much appreciated. Really.

Are invisible cookies still a suitable bribe for reviews? I've got invisible sparkling apple juice, too. It's like champagne, but cheaper. Snazzy-looking, though.


	3. No Little Wyvern Costumes

**Author's Notes: **This. _This _is the chapter of nightmares. Sure, it wrote easy enough, so what's the problem? Well, when it came down to polishing up the chapter, I _couldn't stop_. For two months, there were always things that needed fixing, sentences that needed to be trimmed or added on to, and editseditsedits. Oh man, the edits. Plus, the last few months have been all hectic and busy so I couldn't just sit down and work everything out at once. So I'm sorry for the delay.

The good news is that updates should be faster now, 'cause pretty much the whole fic is written up, thanks to NaNoWriMo and a month of tearing my hair out and writing like mad.

**Disclaimer: **Nope, don't own it.

**In this chapter: **Plenty of giant lizards, a few too many coincidences and a lovely trip down memory lane. Mark makes some Important Decisions on a few Stupid Whims. The love triangle continues its tangled ways. A distinct drop in the number of little wyvern costumes.

---

**The Musical Project**

**Chapter Three**

**By Amethyst Bubble**

---

Heath slowly closed the door to his boss' office. He stood there, half leaning against the door, just making sure he was still alive. After a moment, he pushed himself away from the wall and found his way to one of the large wyvern cages. He pressed his hand against the reinforced glass, feeling a bit better as he watched Hyperion, his favorite of the wyverns, amble by.

The talk with his boss had gone, to put it simply, horribly. It had taken a half hour of arguing to reach a tentative agreement and the whole thing had left Heath with a certainty that this _thing_, this _musical _Legault had somehow gotten him involved in was going to be a fiasco. Beyond fiasco, even. The thing was going to be a disaster of cataclysmic proportions. It was going to be the kind of mess that made one want to head for the nearest hill.

Every fiber of his being blamed Legault. And then, his cell phone rang.

"Speak of the devil…" he muttered darkly, not even bothering to look at the number that flashed across the screen. He knew who it was. He fumbled with the buttons for a moment and then held it to his ear.

"I hate you," he said in greeting. "It's done and I hate you."

"Then I suppose I won't be seeing you for dinner?" Legault asked from across the line, his tone light and sly.

Heath paused a moment before banging his head against the glass wall before him. A passing wyvern glared at him and thrashed his tail in the direction of the _Do Not Tap on Glass _sign. Heath stopped and instead settled for muttering "IhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehim" under his breath.

"I didn't _say _that," he finally grumbled. "I said I hate you. Hating you doesn't necessarily go hand in hand with never seeing you again. If it did, you would have been out of luck a long time ago." He paused and took a deep breath, "I got you the wyverns, okay? But this Mark guy, he's going to have to work out the details himself. I'm done with this, alright?"

"Thank you," Legault replied smoothly. Heath scowled and tried very hard not to find him the least bit charming. Not even an itty bitty little bit. "I'll see you at seven?"

"Make it eight," Heath replied bluntly and promptly hung up.

He looked up to find the wyvern giving him one of those very knowing looks. He briefly thought that it was probably a bad sign when dragons were doing that to you.

"Stop it," he said, pointing at the beast, "or I'm skimping on your dinner."

The wyvern promptly averted its gaze.

"Thank you."

---

Mark hadn't thought that anything _bad_ could possibly result from meeting with the owner of the renowned Raider's Wyvern Preservation. Oh, no, Mark ventured into the whole deal innocent of mind, naïve of soul. On the way there, he speculated on what the owner would be like and decided that an elderly gentleman in a safari suit seemed only fitting.

Mark hadn't been expecting one Miss Vaida Raiders.

"You want wyverns," she said, observing him sharply from across her large desk, "for a _play_."

"It's a musical," he said timidly, hoping desperately that she was a fan.

She was not.

He squirmed in his seat and added meekly, "It's a historical one."

She glared and he had the urge to check and see if he was on fire. He glanced at his arm, just in case and he was only a little bit comforted when he found his sleeve flame-free.

"I have already agreed to lend you wyverns-- two, to be exact-- for your little play," she stated. He breathed a sigh of relief and she pointed an index finger at him. "_However_, we have some guidelines to go over."

Mark nodded enthusiastically, hoping to placate her. "I like guidelines! Me and guidelines, like two peas in a pod!" he smiled widely and hoped she didn't know just how nervous he was.

Vaida, obviously not impressed with his love for rules and order, gave him a look that clearly said _"shut up"_. Mark shut up.

"First and foremost, without proper training, neither you nor any member of your crew will be allowed to handle the wyverns at _any time_. Unless you have a death wish," Vaida added the last part as if she really couldn't care less.

"No death wishes," Mark confirmed quickly.

"An employee and I will be supervising when the wyverns are on stage. There will be no feeding of the wyverns. I have the right to veto any wyvern-related stunts if I see fit. Finally," she lowered her voice and glared down at him. "There will be no _little wyvern costumes _involved. Ever."

"No costumes," Mark squeaked, feeling tiny and afraid. His imagination took over for a moment and he saw himself as a mouse being toyed with by the ferocious Vaida-Lion, waiting for her to decide whether he was worth the time to eat or not.

"So long as we're clear," she said, scrutinizing him with sharp eyes. Mark wondered if the earth had enough pity to swallow him up right there and then.

"So, uh," he began, never having before encountered a problem that couldn't be solved by small talk. "How do you, err, know Legault?"

"I don't." she said shortly, looking extremely unimpressed.

Mark paused for a moment. "Oh," he finally mumbled. There went the small talk option. He wasn't sure he knew any other way to make this less awkward. "Um."

Vaida gave him an exasperated look.

---

"To work with wyverns," Vaida said nearly an hour later, unlocking one of the many enclosures, "you cannot be afraid of them."

Mark eyed the impressive wingspan of the nearest beast. _Easier said than done, _he thoughtHe glanced over his shoulder at Legault, who had been lurking by the door when Mark had stumbled blearily out of Vaida's office. Mark, out of concern for his battered sanity, hadn't asked what he'd been doing. Not like he had to, anyway, it was plain to see that Legault was only interested in a certain employee of Vaida's.

"Are you paying any attention?" Vaida snapped and Mark looked back at her. He tried to stand as straight as possible, worried that slouching might offend her further. She gave him a brief nod, though her scowl stayed in place, fierce as ever.

Behind Mark's back, Heath shoved Legault and mouthed a threat, motioning towards Vaida.

"I hope you don't think I'll be handling any giant lizards," Legault whispered, one eyebrow arched.

"In case I ever get frustrated enough to lock you in with them, I wouldn't necessarily mind if you survived," Heath replied, giving Legault a little shove. He fixed his gaze on Vaida with a determination not to look back at the tall man by his side.

With a slight shrug, Legault also directed his attention over to Vaida, watching as the woman brought one of the smaller dragons forward. She stopped in front of Mark, who instinctively took a step back. Legault, having been subject to many of Heath's ramblings on his work, recognized this wyvern as the young new addition to the preservation, the so-called baby of the group. Still, the beast towered over Mark and lashed her tail from side to side nervously, not used to being around more than one or two people at a time.

Mark looked the wyvern in the eye for a second and gulped. He quickly averted his gaze, focusing instead on the rather interesting rock by his feet. He decided idly to name him Mr. Rocky. An excellent name for a rock, he thought to himself.

"Eyes back up!" Vaida commanded. "Eye contact is important when communicating with wyverns!"

Hesitantly, Mark looked back up at the wyvern, allowing his eyes to linger on sharp claws and scaly neck before finally meeting the creature's golden gaze.

Heath clucked his tongue and abandoned Legault's side with no warning but a quick grin. He walked up behind Mark and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"No need to be nervous," he told the shorter man and with smooth, slow movements, walked him forward until he was right next to the wyvern. "She's a good girl, she doesn't bite."

With a snort, Vaida gave her employee a withering look. "If it has _teeth_, Heath, it bites," she said. Mark shuddered and tried to forget the tall woman had said that.

"She _won't_, though," Heath said. Mark found the confidence in his voice reassuring. Heath smiled at the wyvern and asked her, "Will you, girl?"

Certain that Heath was better at this than Vaida, Mark silently swore to listen to everything he had to say. He regretted his decision as soon as Heath spoke again.

"You can pet her, you know," Heath said, reaching out to touch the great beast's scaly neck. Mark definitely did not want to do that. He eyed the wyvern, who had lowered her head and was now nudging against Heath's forearm. The creature was generally acting a bit like a gigantic cat, but the sheer size of the thing (and the claws and the teeth and the huge spiked tail) made him more than a little nervous about actually touching it.

Looking at his face, Heath laughed a bit. "It's easy," he said. "Anyone can do it." Then, to illustrate his point, he looked over his shoulder and called, "Legault!"

With a grumble and an eye roll that seemed a little forced, the lavender-haired man walked forward. The look in his eyes held a calm sort of amusement as he came to a stop by Heath, who grabbed him by the wrist and placed his hand on the wyvern's neck. The corners of Legault's mouth twitched upwards.

Vaida looked thoroughly disgusted with the whole thing.

"See?" Heath said to Mark. "Like I said, it's easy."

However, Mark's attention was no longer focused on the wyvern, but rather on the three other people gathered around her. He slowly looked from Vaida, to Legault, to Heath. And suddenly, something clicked.

Slowly, a grin formed on his face and he looked up at them with a glint in his eyes. "How would the three of you like roles?"

---

Hours later, Mark arrived home exhausted, intimidated and fearing for his life. In the back of his mind, he kept a list of the most frightening experiences of his life, from the time his house had nearly been flooded to the Great Wyvern Versus Pegasus Incident of years past, to his very first script (now shredded, torn, burned, stamped on and scattered to the winds). He mentally penciled in "Meeting with Vaida Raiders" right after the house thing.

Still, he had found people to play the three roles that had been giving him the most trouble. If that wasn't a lucky streak, what was? And to think that they would all be in the same place, too. Mark had the feeling that things were finally starting to go his way.

His cat greeted him with a scornful look, perched on top of his list of actors. He removed her carefully, avoiding pointy claws, and picked his list up.

For the most part, he was happy with it. There were a few roles he wasn't sure of, but hey, nothing was ever perfect. Besides, he was thrilled to have found such perfect matches with the majority of the cast. The names, the looks… they fit perfectly. It was almost as if these people had been made for the play.

It was like some sort of sign. Mark wasn't entirely sure he believed in signs (he hadn't before), but it was just too large, too grand to be a coincidence. It was fate. It was destiny. It was really, really cool.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he reached over and grabbed his red pen. It was time to make some final decisions.

---

Regardless of the fact that the Lycian Latte™ was back and better than ever (extra whipped cream, lo-fat, cinnamon available if asked for), the coffee shop was nearly empty. The girl behind the counter twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. Out of boredom and with just a dash of spite, she glared at the young man seated at one of the back tables.

Over at that very table, Guy shivered and tried to pretend that he wasn't being given the evil eye. Matthew's gaze lingered on him before traveling over to the glowering employee for a moment. Leila stirred her coffee a few times before, finally, she spoke.

"I'm not saying that he picked us solely on our _names_," she began, looking skeptical. "But… it's just a bit too much to be a coincidence." The two men didn't ask for any clarification.

"I like my character," Matthew said, leaning back in his chair. "A charming, roguish spy—it's a perfect fit."

"You're n-not charming," Guy rolled his eyes. "And the only resemblance is that he picks on my character!" he accused, pointing a finger squarely at Matthew's chest.

"It's not "picking"," Matthew argued, reaching over and flicking at Guy's forehead. "It's a kind of guidance, really. The fun kind. Your character owes mine favors, so it's perfectly fair."

"Favors that he only g-got because he held a piece of meat under a starving man's nose--!"

Leila leaned in between them and snapped her fingers twice. "Getting a little off topic here, boys?" she said, raising an eyebrow. Guy fidgeted, and stared at the wall with determination. Matthew's grin stayed as wide as ever, but he didn't say anything else. Leila waited a second before sitting back.

"Before we start arguing about the motives of our respective characters, can we backtrack for a second? I mean… he couldn't have picked us based on our first names, could he?" she tapped her fingers against the table, agitated.

Matthew's expression sobered a bit and he shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I've heard of odder things happening."

"Maybe it's a coincidence?" Guy said uncertainly.

"If it was only one of us, I'd write it off as that, but all three?" Leila looked skeptical.

"It is pretty weird," Guy admitted, playing absentmindedly with the end of his braid. Matthew watched with something that resembled fascination. Leila kicked him under the table.

"It could be a joke," Matthew said with a tiny frown at Leila. Under the table, he rubbed his shin.

Leila raised an eyebrow as Guy squirmed. "Odd joke," she said, but didn't dismiss the idea all together.

"Look," Guy said, watching the clock on the wall. He only had five minutes until his break was over and he didn't want to go back to work with a cloud of doubt hovering over him. "We should all just be happy we got roles, right? I know I didn't expect to get one."

"You're right," Leila agreed, a small smile gracing her features. "I guess I'm just being a little suspicious."

Matthew stole her coffee and took a sip before pointing out, "And like I said, I like my character. Very good match. The director must be a genius."

"If you pull my hair on stage, I will hurt you," Guy said in a low, threatening tone. Matthew smiled politely until Guy's back was turned, and then he yanked. Twice.

Leila took this as her opportunity to get her coffee back.

---

"Erk!" Louise called up the stairs, "Phone call for you!"

Erk set his pen down, stood up from his desk and took a deep breath. He had a pretty clear idea who it would be. He took his time going down the steps, steadying himself for the conversation ahead. He vowed not to roll his eyes, no matter how ridiculous things got, as he accepted the phone from Louise.

"Hello?" he said into the phone, balancing it on his shoulder.

From the other end, there was a long, forlorn sigh. Erk was pretty sure he heard the melancholy strains of some classical piece playing in the background. He resigned himself to the very long conversation that was sure to follow.

"It's _terrible_, Erk," Serra moaned, and Erk could picture her very clearly. She would be sitting on her fluffy, four-poster bed, the pink and white curtains drawn around her in, as she'd put it, an artistic expression of shutting out the world. She clasped the phone tightly in one hand while she pressed the other to her forehead, perpetually on the verge of swooning.

His promise not to roll his eyes already compromised, Erk strengthened his resolve. He reminded himself that she was his friend, she was in pain, it would be cruel--

"_Terrible_," she repeated forcefully and tacked a sad little sigh onto the end.

He rolled his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said automatically. Distantly, he wondered whether he was sorry about her distress or sorry about the eye-rolling. The eye-rolling, he decided. It was a little bit hard to feel sorry for her when she was being so… _melodramatic_.

"I mean, I was good, wasn't I?" she continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I thought I was good. Was I good, Erk?"

"I'm so sorry," he said again, knowing that whatever his answer to her question was, it wouldn't be good enough.

"Where did I go wrong?" she sighed again, sounding genuinely lost.

"I'm really sorry," he said. Then, feeling a little bit stupid for saying pretty much the same thing three times in two minutes, he added, "You didn't get the part."

There was a moment of silence.

Then, indignant, she screeched, "_What_?!"

Erk paused and wondered what he did wrong. "I, err, I… what?" At the sound of his confusion, Louise poked her head from behind the corner and gave him a questioning look. He blinked at her and shrugged.

"Of _course _I got a part!" she shouted loud enough to make his ears ring. He jolted, his attention instantly and fully devoted to their conversation. "How could you even think that I wouldn't, Erk?"

Erk wondered why he didn't have normal friends. Normal friends would be nice. Normal friends wouldn't make him deal with this stuff. Normal friends wouldn't cause him to go deaf at the age of twenty. "But… the sighing! Why are you doing that if nothing's wrong?" he asked, though he already knew he wouldn't understand the answer. He was too deep in Serra Land, where nothing made the faintest bit of sense to him.

"Because something _is _wrong! Seriously, Erk, do you not understand women at all?" she demanded and he could practically _feel _the glower, the raised eyebrows, the pointy lavender nails drumming against her arm.

"No," Erk said flatly, deciding that, at this point, lying would get him nowhere. Of course, the truth wouldn't get him very far either, but it might stop him from sinking deeper into the Pit of Pink Pigtailed Confusion. "You got a part, Serra, so what's wrong?"

"_A _part, Erk, _a _part," she said, her tone of voice clearly conveying her opinion that he was a moron. "Really. I think I was picked solely for my name, and, beautiful name though it is, I have other attributes that should be taken into consideration."

"Solely for your name? You got the part of Serra?" Erk's mind strayed back to his history lessons about the war in question. "A loquacious cleric who came from Ostia, escorted by a young, somewhat frazzled mage, she met the Lady Lyndis on her quest to meet her grandfather…"

"I know, I know," Serra interrupted, sounding huffy. Then her voice rose to a whine. "But she's nothing like me!"

---

"Mark," Ninian said imploringly, clasping her hands in front of her. She wore her sweetest, most sensitive look as she gazed at her best friend. "Mark, I know you've said that you're set on this, but please, if you could just consider…"

"Ninian, you're playing Ninian. Give it up," Mark muttered around the pen cap held between his teeth. He scrawled something on a scrap of paper, mumbling under his breath. Ninian caught a few slurred words here and there, but didn't try to figure out what squirrels, teacups and little wyvern costumes had to do with each other.

Her sweet look melting away, she crossed her arms and stared at her feet. "I'm not an actress!" she said, hoping it would get through his thick skull. "I'm a complete amateur. I won't be any good!"

"I'm sure you'll do fine," Mark replied absentmindedly. He seemed to freeze for a moment, before leaning forward and squinting at the paper pressed against his drawn up knees. He coughed. "Hey, uh, your brother--"

"_No_," she said before she could stop herself. She threw her hands up in the air and stood in one fluid movement, her long skirt swishing as she marched around the coffee table. "Nils is not going to play _that _Nils! Absolutely not, Mark, just no."

Mark looked up at her at last, an odd gleam in his eye. "I was going to ask if he borrowed my book on dragons…" he removed the pen cap from his mouth and simply _grinned_.

Ninian paled.

"But now that you mention it…" his tone was full of excitement and the gleam in his eye was more than a little manic. He slowly stretched himself out, arms behind his head and feet propped up on the coffee table. The piece of paper slid, forgotten, off his lap and onto the floor. "I'm sure my old pal Nils won't mind doing me a little favor," he hummed to himself.

Ninian fervently hoped her brother would forgive her.

---

"He wants me to play… myself?" Nils raised an eyebrow as Ninian explained the situation over dinner. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before swallowing, nodding to himself. "That's pretty cool, actually. How many people get the opportunity to do that?"

Ninian wondered if the whole world was conspiring against her. "You don't really want to, though, do you?" she asked him, her stare wide and pleading. "I mean, there's no way he can force us if we're together on this issue, united, strong…"

"Oh, no," Nils said, giving his sister a grin. Ninian thought she saw fangs. "I think it'll be fun, don't you, sister dearest?"

"I wish we were in mortal danger," Ninian muttered under her breath. "You were never like this when we were in mortal danger." Silently, she gave into the nagging pangs of guilt she felt and assured herself that she didn't really wish for danger. Not really. Still, he really hadn't been this cheeky back then and wasn't that worth something?

"Oh, how the times have changed," Nils replied, giving the lamp a meaningful look and sighing deeply. "Why, I remember, back in the day…"

"You can stop that now." Ninian said flatly, stabbing a lettuce leaf viciously.

Nils shook his head and pressed a hand to his chest. "I can do no such thing!" he declared forcefully. "I must practice my acting, for I am soon bound for the stage! Ah, the lights, the audience-- is there any joy greater than this? Oh, anticipation, so sweet, like grapes on the vine."

"Please, please stop," Ninian muttered. She continued to take out her frustration on her salad.

---

"Someone has to go in there eventually," Limstella said, eyeing the door to Nergal's office. For the past half hour, she and Ephidel had been camped out there, trying to decide whether their father had barricaded himself in there in joy or anger. Whatever the reason, the elderly man had seemed especially… eccentric as of late.

"You're the favorite," Ephidel reasoned, rubbing his forehead. He really had to get out of this house.

"And I'd like it to stay that way," Limstella replied, completely calm. Ephidel tried to count the number of times he'd seen her act emotional and realized he could do it on half a hand.

"Go," she said, halfway between encouragement and an order. "He probably won't kill you."

"What a reassuring person you are," Ephidel replied snappishly, reaching for the office door. Limstella stepped back into the shadows, her golden eyes glinting eerily as she watched his every move. He turned the knob slowly and opened the door just a crack, peering inside.

All the lights were off except for a single lamp on the desk. Nergal was seated in his favorite chair, head in his hands, muttering to himself with his thinking turban settled neatly upon his head. The stack of note cards that had previously been there was gone, an empty square on the otherwise cluttered desk.

Certain now that disturbing him would be a bad idea, Ephidel moved to close the door when someone gave him a sharp push from behind. He leaned on the door to catch himself and it swung open, causing him to fall, headfirst, into the room. Turning around, the last thing he saw was a little smirk on Limstella's face before the door slammed shut.

Well. At least that was one more for the list of Limstella's facial expressions.

As the sound of the slammed door echoed throughout the small room, Nergal's head snapped up and for a second, Ephidel was sure he could see fire in the eye uncovered by the turban. Then, as suddenly as it had been there, it was gone, replaced with sheer exasperation.

"Oh, it's you. Can't you open a door the right way?" Nergal redirected his attention to a piece of paper on his desk. He examined it for a moment, his pen hovering in midair, before he ferociously scratched something out. Seemingly satisfied, he leaned back in his chair and observed Ephidel. "Well?"

Ephidel straightened up and brushed some dust from his shoulder, feeling severely annoyed. "We wanted to make sure you were alright, father," he said, and didn't dare voice the part of him that whispered, _and not plotting some bizarre murder-suicide deal._ "You've been in here nearly all day."

"Have I?" Nergal stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose I've been too engrossed in my writings to notice the time passing."

"The novel again?" Ephidel asked, again puzzled by the lack of note cards. They were Nergal's constant companion when it came to writing; no note went unscribbled, no frustration unscrawled, no distracting doodle undrawn.

"Oh, no," Nergal replied, the tone of his voice dulled by distraction as he wrote something down, pausing to consider it. "No, no, of course not. There are other matters at hand before that can be accomplished. I must have my muse, if you understand my meaning."

Ephidel did not understand. He did not understand one bit. "Your muse?"

"Ah, your mother was fantastic at it," Nergal said. Ephidel very nearly turned tail and ran when he realized that his father sounded nostalgic, of all things.

"Of course," Nergal continued, pushing his chair back and folding his hands together. "Back then, it was for acting, not for writing. Still, whenever there was a hurdle I simply thought I could not jump, a challenge in my way that I thought too great…"

Deep down, Ephidel thought this was almost heartwarming. He rarely heard his father speak like this. He listened intently, hanging on his father's every word.

"Ah, then she would throw a plate at me and tell me that I would never get anything done like that. Wonderful aim, your mother." Nergal's pleasant smile sent chills down the young man's spine.

Ephidel made a mental note to go and give his therapist a call.

---

She had gotten the part. Her return to the theatre, to the stage, was near. Her former glory would be restored and fame and fortune would wrap themselves around her like a silk sheet. She could practically feel the bright lights, hear the audience applaud… Ah, those were the days.

Hannah settled back into her chair and smirked. Of course, it was also an opportunity to pursue the man of her dreams, as well. She would not let this opportunity slip through her fingers. She had checked as soon as she had arrived home and the stars did indeed confirm that love was on the horizon for her.

She cackled, folding her fingers together and tilting her head.

Things were coming up roses for Hannah and, if she had her way, they'd certainly continue to do so. After all, it was about time for her to make a triumphant comeback. And maybe, after this, a nice little vacation with her newfound love of her life. His treat, of course.

---

Athos examined his beard in the mirror, poking and prodding at it in a critical manner. He was due for a trim, certainly. Until then… he searched through the drawer and pulled out a bottle of cologne. Spraying a bit onto his beard, he wondered if the ladies still went for white hair. Maybe he should consider dying it? A nice red, perhaps, or a sleek black?

"Do blondes really have more fun?" he asked himself the age old question. He took a moment to imagine himself with shining gold locks. "Like a lion, you handsome beast. Like a lion," he grinned, winking at his reflection.

Hearing heavy, dragging footsteps in the hall, he opened his door to investigate. There, he encountered Erk, one hand on the railing, slumped over and looking most puzzled. His other hand was knotted in his purple hair and he was muttering something about being killed in the night.

"Is something wrong?" Athos asked, bushy eyebrows shooting up. Erk looked up blearily and blinked a few times.

"I don't understand women," he replied, dragging his hand out of his hair with unsteady, jagged movements.

"Oh?" Athos raised an eyebrow. Well, he supposed it that it was about time. Erk was getting to be _that _age, after all. Athos resisted the urge to sigh nostalgically. Ah, youth… such a time of blissful stupidity.

Erk sighed, long and low. "It's… well, it's ridiculous! I just spent two hours on the phone with Serra--"

"Your girlfriend?" Athos interrupted, allowing just the faintest hint of amusement to slip into his voice.

Erk frowned. "She is _not _my girlfriend," he said flatly. In afterthought, he added, "I don't _have _a girlfriend."

"Really? What happened to that nice girl-- what was her name? Patty, Patricia…" Athos trailed off, brow furrowed in an effort to remember.

"Priscilla," Erk supplied with a look of suffering. "And can we please, please not talk about this?"

"Alright, alright," Athos waved the subject off in a grandfatherly manner. "So, what's the problem?"

"The problem is that I don't know what the problem is!" Erk threw his hands up in frustration. "She kept going on about how she got a part but it's not the part and-- I just don't get it!"

"Erk," Athos said, adopting his patented wise tone. He decided it was time for some to give the boy some advice, a few words from a seasoned elder to a naïve youngster. A gentle shove down the right path. He cleared his throat, "As you grow up, you will meet many women. I'm sure they'll all be charming people, but a word of advice: none of them will make a speck of sense. Not one. I can guarantee that."

"Is this supposed to be incentive to lock myself up in a room forever and ever with nothing but books for company?" Erk asked dryly, eyebrows raised and arms crossed.

"Hardly, my dear boy!" Athos chuckled, giving Erk a reassuring slap on the back. "Women are fascinating creatures! Why, I remember, back in my day…" he enthusiastically launched into a lengthy tale of his exploits and adventures, a certain gleam in his eye. He stroked his nicely perfumed beard as he spun the tale of a particular flaxen-haired maiden he had attempted to woo back in the day.

Erk resisted the urge to slap a hand to his forehead and solemnly reminded himself that today was not a good day for conversations. Not a good day at all.

---

Guy wasn't sure how he felt about quitting. He knew he shouldn't be sad about it-- he _hated _his job-- but he just couldn't help it. It felt a bit like leaving a part of himself behind. He felt almost… empty.

Guy paused to wonder if he was being a tad, well, _dramatic_ about the whole thing. He was pretty sure that sane people didn't treat quitting their (loathed) jobs the same as characters in bad romance novels reacted to leaving lovers. He wiped down a glossy countertop and wondered if there was a bad romance novel out there where the main character left their lover, a coffee shop.

(_"You can't do this to me! You _need _me!" the Coffee Shoppe exclaimed, and the milk steamer looked indignant, clouds of rage-filled perspiration fogging its stainless steal surface. I found myself turning away, turning my back on that which I once had loved with my very being. _

"_I'm sorry, but this has to end," I said as if I was explaining this to a very small child. At this moment, that was what the Coffee Shoppe was to me; but a child, stubborn and selfish in its disbelief that this was best. Yes, this was best-- for both of us._

"_You'll regret it!" the Coffee Shoppe shouted and, taking one last look over my shoulder, I thought I saw a few tears, precious like dark cocoa beans filled to the brim with their caffeinated emotion, slide down the polished wood counter…)_

"I really have to get out of here," Guy muttered to himself. He cast a suspicious look at the milk steamer-- the last thing he needed was it putting the moves on him.

Suddenly, he realized he was finished with the task at hand. He was done cleaning up, he was done counting the money, he was done with everything that closing entailed. There was nothing left to do now but lock up and leave. A strange hesitation crept over him. He leaned against the table and contemplated his situation.

He was in the middle of a coffee shop. Alone. After dark. And he didn't want to leave.

Quite clearly, Matthew had finally succeeded in driving him out of his mind. He straightened up and adjusted his headband, making sure his bangs stayed out of his eyes. It was time to get out of here, no matter what inexplicable attachment he was currently feeling towards the place.

With a sigh and one last look at the blackboard where the specials were listed, Guy left the shop, locking the door behind him. He turned around and stopped short.

He had not been expecting to come face to face with Matthew. "What are y-you doing?" he asked, staring up incredulously at the blond man.

"I was waiting for you. Quietly. Outside. While you stared dreamily at coffee machines," Matthew said, hands in his pockets and eyebrows raised. "Something I should know about?"

"I think it was giving me looks," Guy said, the words slipping past before he realized how crazy he sounded. He sincerely hoped this was one of those times when Matthew wasn't really listening to him.

"Natural perverts, coffee-related appliances," Matthew said wisely, grinning down at Guy.

_Nope_, Guy thought to himself. _Definitely a listening moment._

"It was a joke! A joke!" Guy tried valiantly to preserve whatever fragments of dignity he had left. He was sure his slightly shaky voice betrayed the fact that his thoughtless statement of before was not, in fact, an attempt at being funny. "A-anyway," he said, changing the subject. "Why were you waiting for me?"

"I can't wait for you now?" Matthew asked innocently, as if he did indeed wait outside the coffee shop, quietly and without obvious cause, every time Guy closed up. "You wound me so."

"No, I don't," Guy scoffed, suspicion creeping into his expression. "C'mon, Matthew, what're you doing, well… here?" he finished lamely.

Matthew rolled his eyes, a playful smile on his lips. "You never let me have any fun," he sighed, raising his hands in a _what can you do? _way. "C'mon, let's go celebrate."

"…This is incredibly suspicious," Guy pointed out, crossing his arms.

Matthew rolled his eyes again and tsked, "You have no faith."

"None at all," Guy confirmed quickly. "Celebrate what, exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know," Matthew looked towards the dark sky as if searching for an ever elusive answer. "We could settle for both getting parts in a big play and you breaking out of the business of serving coffee while I subtly hang around and harass you."

"Now you get to harass me in a whole new environment," Guy scowled. He did not seem very impressed with the idea.

"Exactly!" In contrast, Matthew seemed positively thrilled. "C'mon," he said, catching a hold of Guy's elbow. "Leila's meeting us for a movie in an hour, so let's get something to eat before that."

"You're p-paying!" Guy stuttered out, following closely at Matthew's heels. After a moment, when Matthew's back was turned, he allowed himself a small grin.

---

"I thought you already had someone for the role of Legault," Ninian said as he told her the story that night. "What was his name again? I remember he was very handsome…"

"He wasn't that great," Mark said in the tone of a man who had just heard a female friend insinuate that anyone else besides him could possibly be good looking. "But, yeah, Rennac Rogue was his name, I think."

"What are you going to do about him?" Ninian asked, her tone of voice telling Mark that she thought him a little bit silly, making a split-moment decision like he had.

Mark hesitated, biting his lip. "But… but Legault's so perfect! And his _name_ is Legault! And… and!"

Ninian sighed, brushing some of her hair back, "Not the name thing again, Mark. You can't keep picking these people based on that." She paused, then added, "Me, for example. I'd be a horrid Ninian. I really think you should reconsider. You could give my part to Rennac."

"Haha," Mark said dryly, folding his arms across his chest.

She sighed again and tried hard not to pout.

"And I'm _not _choosing them based solely on names," Mark continued, a touch of indignation in his voice. "They really do fit the parts perfectly! They even look like the sketches in the tactician's journal!"

"I know, I know," she said and tried to steer him back on topic. "But seriously, Mark, what are you going to do about this?"

Mark furrowed his brow in thought. It took a moment, but Ninian could have sworn she saw the proverbial light bulb appear over her friend's head. "I'll tell him there's been a mistake," he said with a big grin. "That he was supposed to be the understudy!"

"That's a little bit cruel, Mark," Ninian said, feeling bad for Rennac.

"Ninian, Ninian, Ninian," Mark said, shaking his head side to side in an exaggerated fashion. "This is _show business_."

Ninian supposed she couldn't really argue with that.

---

The next day, as they were feeding the wyverns, Heath turned to Vaida with a puzzled look on his face. "Can I ask you something?"

"Depends," she grunted. She threw a chunk of meat to her favorite of the bunch, a huge black wyvern named Umbriel. "Is it a stupid question?"

Heath decided not to answer that. "It's just… we're not actors," he said in that unsure tone of voice that stated that he wasn't sure how to put this. "I'm not even interested in the theatre and, unless I'm really mistaken, neither are you. So… why did we agree?"

Vaida paused, a piece of raw steak in hand. An unreadable look crossed her face, but it was quickly replaced by one of annoyance. "Son of a bitch," she swore. The wyvern next in line to be fed looked rather impatient. Umbriel swooped in to steal the steak as Vaida stood there, distracted for a moment. He received a light smack on the snout.

"See?" Heath said, whistling to the wyvern whose meal Umbriel had stolen. "It doesn't make sense." He held out an extra large piece to the wronged dragon, patting her scaly neck.

"No," Vaida agreed, pursing her lips and looking fairly murderous. "It doesn't. After this I'm going to give that pipsqueak a call and tell him that it's off, and that if he even so much as objects, his insides are getting fed to the wyverns as spaghetti dinner! I am not going to be in that musical disaster of his."

"Same here," Heath said, frowning.

After the feeding was over, neither of them made the call.

**---**

**To Be Continued**

**---**

I hope a longer-than-usual chapter makes up for the wait? If not, the poking with twigs may now resume. Also, I'm planning to have a new (cracked out, pretty long) oneshot of a slashy fairy tale parody up on Wednesday, so keep your eyes peeled for it!

Hope everyone enjoyed the chapter and, as always, reviews are very appreciated!


	4. One Bourbon, One Scotch and One Gin

**Author's Notes: **Annnnd of course, in my "updates should be faster" note, there was a silent clause that stated that that was only true if I didn't manage to lose half of the next chapter's scenes in a separate file. Good job, Ammy.

In any case, this fic has almost fifty reviews after three chapters. I am a little stunned. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! I love you bunches and wish to shower you all with confetti.

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own it.

**In this chapter: **Mark makes an inspiring speech, Hyperion is your average wyvern and Umbriel enjoys biting things. In half. Heath swears he's never seen _My Fair Lady_. The love triangle tries to drown their respective sorrows in a bottle.

**---**

**The Musical Project**

**Chapter Four**

**By Amethyst Bubble**

**---**

The night before the first rehearsal, Mark found himself stricken with the heavy sort of panic usually reserved for when one manages to lock oneself out on the balcony in subzero weather wearing naught but a wet Speedo. He tried to preoccupy himself by pacing a straight line, but the messy state of his living room meant that he had to constantly jump over books and dodge the huge piles of laundry spawning like rabbits across his floor.

"Okay," he told himself, tapping into the memories of that one yoga tape he had watched near-religiously in college. "Breathe in… and breathe out… and deeeep breath… and breathe out…" He waited a moment. Calm failed to settle over him. Panic stayed right where it was. It was just like he was back in Playwriting 101 with his arch-enemies again.

"Okay," he said again, just in case the repetition would make it so. "Things are fine. Everything is fine. Just… _fine_."

_You are in denial_, he thought. _It is not fine. It is the opposite of fine. Anti-fine, that's what it is._

Mark moaned and slumped down in the nearest chair. He hung his head so that his bangs overshadowed his eyes, leaving everything hazy and brown. He tried the breathing thing again, half-heartedly hoping that maybe the second time would be the charm. Amazingly, this time, it seemed to work. After a few moments, he got up the courage to lift his head. Seeking comfort, he turned towards the warm bundle of fur that was his cat.

"Everyone has their scripts," he said to his cat, just in case his furry companion had been wondering.

His cat seemed to scoff. Mark decided that his cat would be more comforting if he wasn't looking him in the eyes. He directed his attention towards his tail instead. _Aww_, he thought to himself. _What a cute fluffy tail. _

"Everyone has their scripts," he repeated and summoned up all his courage. It was time to make a statement, he thought to himself, one brimming with positive energy. "It'll be great!" he exclaimed and shifted into a more comfortable sitting position. Nothing to do now but wait for things to turn out a-okay. Like sunshine and daisies, he thought to himself. Just like sunshine and daisies.

---

The next day morning dawned bright and early. Mark awoke to find that things were not quite in the sunshine and daisies category, but rather in the broken alarm clock one. He was late. He was, in fact, very late, possibly even bordering on the lands of dismally so.

He tried to think of someone to blame this on, someone other than himself. Pulling his jacket over his head and smoothing his unruly hair all at the same time, Mark figured that Ninian was probably going to skin him and make him into a throw rug.

He paused; that was much too violent for her. No, no, someone _else_, perhaps some lackey of Nils', would do the skinning and the making into a throw rug. Maybe with some decorative thread and a bit of nice embroidery. Then they'd give throw rug-him to Ninian and she'd accept it with one of her little smiles because she was always so _nice _and didn't turn down presents and he was an awful person who always woke up late and she'd drape him over the back of her couch, all very nice and neat and…

He started to hyperventilate. _Get a grip_, he told himself, sitting down on the arm of the sofa, wasting a minute he did not have to regain some small shred of composure. _Get a grip. She's not going to kill you. Her brother's lackeys-- assuming he actually has any and your imagination isn't overactive and absolutely crazy-- are not going to kill you. They will all glare, probably, and you will feel guilty and that will be the worst of it._

Very helpfully, his cat trotted up to him and gently raked a paw full of sharp claws against his bare foot, as if to say, _get your stupid shoes on, you lazy ass. _

Being a (occasionally) sensible man, Mark did as his cat ordered and got his shoes on. "Thanks," he said to his cat.

His cat stared.

Mark took that as a bit of affection that his cat was far too stoic to show. He saluted the feline, grabbed his bag and headed out the door, full of that certain kind of confidence that melted away as soon as you left your home.

Back inside the apartment, Mark's cat rolled his eyes, stretched out on the window sill and enjoyed the peace.

---

Throughout the room, the same questions were murmured over and over. _"Where is the director?" _they asked. _"Shouldn't he be here?" _they wondered. _"He was late for the auditions, too, wasn't he?" _they recalled. _"Why does that girl in the blue dress look like she's going to burst a blood vessel?" _they gulped.

Ninian tapped her foot on the ground. She coughed. She crossed her arms. She shook her head from side to side, her long hair brushing her hips as she did so.

"Are you annoyed or dancing?" Nils asked, eyes fixated on the up and down, up and down, tap tap tap motion of her left foot.

Ninian didn't answer. She didn't even give him a glance. Nils was instantly frightened. His sister was a perfectly lovely person, but she was still his sister and could still be the scariest thing in the world to him if she wanted to be. At the moment, it seemed, she really wanted to be.

"Where is he?" she grumbled, unfolding her arms to place her hands on her hips. She kept them like that for a moment, as if testing the position, before crossing them over her chest again. Her frown spoke of disappointment, disgruntlement and danger.

Nils took one small step backwards, closer to the neon exit sign. He told himself that he really needed to make some friends and stop hanging out with his sister so much. It could not possibly be good for him.

Ninian twitched and watched the door very carefully. She didn't even want to be here. Mark wanted her to be here. Yet, strangely, Mark himself was nowhere to be seen. Ninian's more reasonable side, the one she usually let govern her life, told her to stay calm. Reasonable Ninian said, very politely, that maybe he got stuck in traffic or there was some minor emergency he had to deal with. Reasonable Ninian was promptly ignored for the part of her that possessed little horns. That Ninian waved her pitchfork around and folded her little tail underneath her as she sat on Ninian's shoulder and whispered a few awfully unkind plans in her ear. Reasonable Ninian frowned and sulked on the other shoulder, feeling very ignored.

It was another fifteen minutes (the time passed by plotting and scheming, some things that, for better or worse, Ninian found herself doing a lot of lately) before Mark came rushing into the room, all rumpled clothes and messy hair.

"Sorry," he said, sounding winded. He hunched over for a second, like he was going to be sick. Thankfully, he only took a few breaths before straightening up.

Ninian was staring at his shoe. "Was that red spot always there?" she asked, trying not to look concerned. (_"You are mad at him!" _One Mini Ninian waved her pitchfork about. Reasonable Ninian smiled and clapped her little hands together.)

"Oh, uh," Mark looked down at his shoe. "My cat, err, gave me a love scratch."

"…That's very sweet," Ninian said slowly.

"Ow," Mark replied.

---

Mark fidgeted. He cleared his throat. He fervently wished he had taken those public speaking classes a telemarketer had offered him two and a half years ago.

From the midst of his mob of actors, professional and amateur alike, a little old lady cried out, "Well, are you going to start talking or are you going to stand there and fidget? I'm not getting any younger!"

(From somewhere else in the crowd, there was a long, infatuated sigh. Pent elbowed Athos discreetly in the ribs.)

_Right, _Mark thought. _She's not getting any younger. _He didn't really see what that had to do with anything, but it made him start talking, an excited rush of words that he would later doubt anyone really understood.

"…And remember to have fun, because it's the emotion of it all, the love of the people who made it, that makes a play so great!" he finished. His eyes shining, he surveyed the crowd.

In the back, Vaida snorted and rolled her eyes. Heath silently agreed with her sentiments. Legault sighed and patted Nino on the head as she nodded enthusiastically. Serra whispered to Erk that she was absolutely great at emotions, no one was better. Matthew reached for Guy's hair. Leila smiled and, without taking her eyes off Mark, stepped on Matthew's foot. Nergal stared at Athos who stared at Hannah who stared at Nergal. Nils applauded, but only a little.

Mark rubbed his hands together and grinned. "Okay," he called, pumping a fist in the air. "Let's make some magic!"

---

Magic, Mark realized, was a very temperamental thing, especially on the first day. He supposed he should just count himself lucky that no one had broken any bones, or quit, or sworn their eternal hatred for him.

"Do I suck as a director?" he asked Ninian afterwards, slumped over on the empty stage, waiting for someone to come and smack some sense into him. What had he been _thinking_?

Ninian rubbed his shoulder sympathetically and tried to think of a way to word things that wouldn't make him sulkier. "No, Mark, of course not," she said. "It's only the first day, and, well, they're a chaotic bunch."

Mark's head drooped a little bit more. Ninian's frown deepened. "I thought it was very good for a first rehearsal," she tried to sound as reassuring as humanly possible. Quickly, she searched her mind for some little detail to mention, something to throw off any suspicions of her having spent most of the rehearsal time hiding her eyes and occasionally nervously peeking out from between her fingers. "The, uh, the choreographer you got, he was very…"

"Ephidel was freaky, Ninian. Admit it."

"…He was a little eccentric, maybe," she admitted, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. Mark scuffed little circles on the floor with the toe of his shoe. "It'll get better, Mark," she promised, trying to ignore the doubt in the back of her mind. It wasn't that she doubted _him_, per se, it was just that everyone else was, to put it mildly, a bunch of lunatics.

"Can I go back in time?" he mumbled into his knees. "Just, go back in time and get a sane idea that doesn't have twenty million characters to juggle and a plot I can barely remember on a good day?"

_Oh, please do, _Ninian would have loved to say, but instead she settled for repeating, "It'll get better."

---

Guy was utterly shocked when Matthew asked him to dinner after the first rehearsal.

"This is like a horror movie, right?" Guy's eyebrows went up as far as he could make them, his look so far past worried that Matthew wondered if he was going to pass out. "I agree, and-- and then it turns out that you're really some sick bastard and _I'm _dinner for you and your sick bastard friends and… and…!"

"I swear, I'm not going to eat you," Matthew rolled his eyes and gave Guy a quick and helpful pat to the shoulder. "Maybe lock you up in my basement for a few months, sporadically torturing you by throwing tennis balls at you, but eat you? No, too dramatic for my tastes. Not to mention messy."

"The basement comment is not comforting," Guy hmphed and attempted to resist for as long as possible. After exactly twenty-nine glorious seconds of freedom, he gave in and said, "O-okay."

(It was an achievement, really. His previous record in the great sport of Resisting Matthew was only twenty-six seconds.)

He tried to find Matthew's grin creepy, he really did, but there was something that was inexplicably charming about him that day. Guy thought he shone like light bulbs. It sounded horrible, and it wasn't very poetic, but it was what came to mind. He busied himself with trying to figure out the wattage.

"I love it when you stare," Matthew's grin, if possible, widened. Very slowly, face burning, Guy raised a hand, placed it on Matthew's jaw and shoved as hard as he could. Then he turned around and walked off in the opposite direction.

Matthew, blessed with long legs and a fast stride, caught up to him again and swung a warm arm around his shoulder. "Fast food?" he suggested.

"Where's Leila?" Guy asked instead.

"She abandoned me for other friends," Matthew said, squinting at the setting sun in the distance. "So it's just you and me. We can rehearse afterwards."

"Joy," Guy muttered.

---

Illuminated eerily by the fluorescent lights of the restaurant, Lyn's smile seemed extra predatory. One long lock of green hair spilled over her shoulder and pooled on the glossy white table top. Eliwood was a little bit reminded of a program he'd seen on that one channel that specialized in footage of cheetahs viciously pouncing on gazelles.

Hector twitched.

Eliwood stared.

Their pizza arrived.

All three reached to take a slice and, abruptly, Lyn began to giggle. Eliwood and Hector exchanged that look they got whenever their female friend did something they did not understand and waited silently for her to make sense.

"It's just," she choked out through the peals of her laughter. She briefly calmed herself, looked at them, and promptly burst out snickering all over again. "Me," she said, pointing at herself, just in case they needed clarification. "And, and, YOU," she pointed at Hector next. "It's hysterical!" she finally finished, slapping one hand on the table.

The elderly couple one booth over seemed very concerned for Lyn's sanity and maybe just a bit worried for their own safety.

("I didn't see anyone make a joke," Sadie said to her husband, rather nervously poking at her baked potato. "Do you think they're alright? This is a good neighborhood, isn't it? They aren't…" she lowered her voice, just in case someone was eavesdropping, "…_Hooligans_?"

"_No_," Harold sounded shocked. "They look like such nice young people!"

"There _was _that article in the newspaper last Saturday," Sadie pointed out, sneaking a suspicious look at the three teenagers. "They could be, you know. _Hooligans_.")

"Lyn," Eliwood began gently, nudging her foot under the table to gain her attention. "You aren't… are you drunk?" It wouldn't be like her, he knew that, but, well, one always had to ask. Just in case.

"Or just crazy?" Hector asked bluntly.

Lyn shook her head emphatically. Her laughter quieted down to a few sparse chuckles and she pressed a hand to her chest. "I'm sorry, it's just… it's _funny_!"

The two boys stared blankly and tried to think what she could possibly find amusing. They came up empty-handed and continued their staring.

Lyn rolled her eyes. "The script," she said. "You've read it all the way through, haven't you? You're no slouches when it comes to business."

"Yeah," Eliwood answered cautiously. "I have, at least. Hector?"

"Sure I have," Hector replied, still not seeing the point. "So?"

"The romance!" Lyn threw her hands up. She really needed to start hanging out with more girls, she thought to herself. Provided, of course, that she could find some who were into things like swordfights and wrestling and that she wouldn't get dragged shopping.

"…Oh." Eliwood said.

"The romance," Hector echoed.

"It's funny?" Eliwood sounded lost.

"Hadn't noticed," Hector said, his tone as close to a verbal shrug as one could get.

"Do you want to explain it?" Eliwood asked uncertainly. Hector gave him an alarmed look and that was all it took for Lyn to agree to clarify things for them.

Lyn took a bite of her pizza and chewed slowly, enjoying the nervous looks on their faces. "I assume you're familiar with the characters?" she finally said, eyeing them with a tiny leer.

"_Lyn_," Hector said, scowling.

"Oh, all right, all right," she said and leaned back slightly, knitting her fingers together.

"Doesn't she look like she's about to tell us what's wrong with our taxes?" Hector said to Eliwood, who fought the urge to grin tooth and nail. When it came down to a choice between Hector and Lyn, Eliwood had to admit that he was far, far more afraid of Lyn.

With a carefully calculated movement, Lyn's foot caught Hector's shin underneath the table at the exact moment she began to speak. "So you've got my character, Lyndis, and she joins your characters on their quest to save Lord Elbert. She's got this knight who is head over heels for her, the whole selfless love thing. In the meantime, she's got these feelings for Hector's character, who's been eyeing her best friend, but never mind that. It's still Hector's character, and it's just…" she dissolved into snickers again.

"What's wrong with my character?" Hector demanded, looking a tad insulted. Eliwood sighed a bit and gave Hector a quick pat on the shoulder. Then he silently went back to his meal, once again resigned to play the part of the sane one.

"Well, he's a bit of a brute, but that's not what I was talking about," Lyn barely batted an eye. "It's just funny to think about, that's all. It sounds like a soap opera."

Eliwood, having seen several soap operas courtesy of his mother, thought that it didn't really sound like one, not unless there was a tragic secret and a shaved chimpanzee in the mix. A tragic hot tub accident wouldn't hurt, either.

("They're _arguing_, Harold," Sadie pointed out, squinting over her shoulder. She searched for a metaphor or simile to use, to spice things up a bit. They argued like dogs might work. Like dogs over a piece of meat. Hungry dogs. Hungry wolves. Wolves that were-- her train of thought was shattered when her husband spoke.

"They're kids, let them be already. You've hardly touched your salad."

"They look shifty," she defended herself and a pushed a crouton across her plate.

Harold sighed and took a long sip of his coffee. "Dear. Please stop. _Please_."

In her head, Sadie began a narration of the on-again-off-again argument taking place not so very far away. _'And it was fire, how they argued, like snake-tongued statues of yore, their eyes alight with ancient passion for the fight. They were claws and feathers, fur and teeth, despite the fact that physically they were but children.'_ She'd always counted poetry among her many talents.)

---

_This_, Nergal thought, staring down at his glass with distaste, _is just not right. _He had a plan. It was a good plan. He liked his plan. He and The Plan of Greatness, as he so affectionately called it, had become very close in the process of plotting. He had little diagrams at home, tucked into a hidden compartment in his impressively large desk.

The woman on his right laughed (_cackled_, he corrected, like some witch in a candy house who liked her children served with hollandaise sauce and a piece of curly parsley) and batted her eyelashes at him.

The man who, for the love of all things turbaned, _should _have been on his right (but was in reality seated next to the woman he had come to know as the Harpy, capital H for emphasis) chuckled (_melodiously_, he added, like some bearded sprite, maybe one of the ones who lived in a tree) and smiled his brightest smile at the Harpy.

He took a long sip of his drink, relishing the burn of the alcohol as it hit his throat. Ah, but that was the stuff. Not as fine as anything in _his _collection, of course, but it did nicely at the moment. Plus, he really, really needed it.

"So, Nergal," Hannah said in that sort of tone women used for idle chit-chat. Nergal couldn't stand it. "You owned a theatre, didn't you? I hope you don't mind, I looked up a few things about you. You know how it is when you work with someone _closely_."

"Ah, yes," Nergal said nostalgically. The light above the bar caught on one of his rings and Hannah stared, transfixed. "The Black Fang Theatre. It was quite famous in its day."

"How fascinating," Hannah said and batted her eyelashes once again. Nergal wondered if something was irritating her eye.

Athos cleared his throat and attempted to change the subject, so utterly disgusted that his grey-haired angel was showing such admiration to the turbaned fiend. "Hannah," he said in his most sensual tone. He hoped that his beard looked manly and impressive, like a full lion's mane that had a (not necessarily for the worst) run-in with a bottle of peroxide. "You run a psychic hotline, don't you?"

A noncommittal mutter was her reply, his angel deciding to give him not so much as one glance, not even in charity. Athos uttered a long sigh and, much like Nergal, sought solace from the bottom of a glass. Such was unrequited love.

---

Guy suspected that this whole thing was far more awkward than it should have been. He and Matthew, they were just friends who happened to be in the same play. It was perfectly normal that they would rehearse together, going over the scene where their characters met until it was as natural to them as speaking itself.

Guy suspected the nervous, fluttery feeling in his stomach had something to do with the scene itself. Maybe it was the way it was worded. It did seem kind of… well. He didn't want to say suggestive, he really didn't. It was something along those lines, he realized with just the slightest bit of distress.

"Are you forgetting that I saved your life?" Matthew said, the look in his eyes absolutely devious. Guy would have yelled at him for it, but Matthew's character seemed to act in a way remarkably similar to the man himself and Guy couldn't exactly criticize him for being so freakishly in character. "You still owe me those favors from that time you collapsed in Caelin, Guy." He leaned forward and practically purring, said, "Don't bite the hand that fed you."

Guy resisted the urge to squirm away and, even more annoying, the urge to get closer. "Fine!" he said spitefully, thankful that his own character gave him an outlet for some of his discomfort. "I'll join your army. And just when I'd gotten settled with a new group, too…"

"Excellent," Matthew said, his tone just a little too cheerful, his expression just a little too smug. "You _won't _regret it."

There was a pause and a rustle of paper. Finding his line, Guy huffed out a, "I better not!"

"Annnnd," Matthew drawled, scanning the rest of the page. "After that, we go back to the fight. You're not bad, Guy, not bad at all."

As much as it pained him, Guy had to admit that Matthew was pretty damn good himself. Refusing to voice such thoughts, he simply settled for what he hoped was a careless shrug.

"What's the next scene?" he asked, averting his eyes away from Matthew's general vicinity.

---

"I think I officially hate musicals," Heath said, playing with the straw of his soda. "Seriously, after this is done, forget acting, I'm never even going to see one again. Ever." He paused a moment and frowned, "Not that I went to them before."

"Tough luck," Legault said, storing the last bit away in his mental filing cabinet. "Nino's enraptured. She will doubtlessly star in many musicals to come, and I will be forced to go. You'll be my date, of course."

"No," Heath said flatly. "I'm not doing it. Not even if you have blackmail."

"Oh?" Legault said and Heath froze up, fingers clenching around his drink. Legault caught this movement out of the corner of his eye and inwardly smirked.

"You don't know anything," Heath said, though there was far too much of an edge in his voice, "You're just trying to make me believe that you know something when, in fact, you're making it all up."

"Got me," Legault said nonchalantly. Heath glowered at him. The styrofoam cup in his hand was nearly crushed.

"You're giving in too easily," he said. "What do you know?"

"Like you said," Legault shrugged and gave Heath a small smile. "I don't know anything."

"Ohhhh no," Heath said. "No, no, no! You are not doing this to me, Legault! Not this time! Not when I have to break the news to the wyverns tomorrow!"

"Ah, yes, the wyverns. That snuck up faster than I expected. I can only assume there will be disaster."

"Don't even joke!" Heath groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. "They seem calm, but when they're around a ton of people…" he trailed off, gnawing at his lower lip. "Umbriel likes to _bite _things. In half." he muttered, more to himself than to Legault.

Overhearing but choosing to ignore the biting remark, Legault slung a casual arm over Heath's shoulders. "I wouldn't worry," he said. "You raised those wyverns well. Everything will go fine."

Heath snorted, but looked thankful for the comment all the same. "Thanks," he said, "but if Hyperion or Umbriel takes a bite out of someone, you're getting the blame. That lawsuit waiting to happen is all yours to handle."

"I suppose it's a risk I'll have to take," Legault said amiably enough.

---

"Louise," Pent said that night as they got ready for bed. "I'm a little worried about my father."

"Oh?" she said, looking at him in the mirror as she combed her long blonde hair. Her eyebrows knit together and her mouth curved downward in a frown. "Can I ask why? He's not ill, is he, dear?"

"No, no," Pent paced, the carpet soft on his bare feet. He paused to reconsider. "Well… not physically."

"He's been very nice lately," Louise commented as she set her hairbrush down. It clunked lightly against the wood of her armoire and she rose, brushing out the skirt of her purple nightgown. "I saw him the other day, giving Erk advice in the hallway. It was very grandfatherly of him."

Pent wondered if this had anything to do with his adopted son asking him about the priesthood. "That… was very nice of him," he said, though in truth he found it a tad worrying. Maybe, he thought, just maybe he ought to have a talk with the old man. A little chat, son to father. Perhaps with some sort of lie detector involved. He pondered the possibilities.

Louise smiled softly at his thoughtful look and came up behind her husband, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Dear," she said, tickling his sides lightly. "You're worrying again. I'm sure everything is just fine."

"Maybe," Pent sounded doubtful.

"Just perhaps," Louise replied, mimicking his tone. "Really, your father is fine, perfectly normal. It's probably just the play. He hasn't acted in a while and he's getting back into the swing of it."

Pent had to admit that made more than a little bit of sense.

"Am I right?" Louise laughed, squeezing him slightly.

"You're right," Pent agreed, turning himself around in her grasp. Then, because he couldn't let the sneaking suspicion that _something _was up go, he added a mumbled "probably." Louise clucked her tongue but let it go, shaking her head in amusement.

Down the hall, in his own room, Athos silently plotted to himself. The night at the bar had been an absolute disaster. It was time to implement some sort of _scheme_. It would have to be brilliant and perfect. It would also have to be done fast.

Athos retrieved a sheet of paper from the table by his bedside. He took a pen from the drawer. He stroked his beard absentmindedly and waited for brilliance to present itself. Brilliance, it turned out, had decided to be fashionably late. Athos settled for brilliance's incompetent brothers, slightly insane and utterly unreasonable.

With a sigh and a smile, he lay back to think happy thoughts of little dancing Hannahs. They pirouetted and winked at him and suddenly, all felt right with the world. Though, Athos thought to himself, this sort of mental image was probably a sign of some sort of sick obsession.

Abruptly, he sat back up and began to draw a simple graph. This could work, he told himself. It was a little obvious, but so be it. Obvious men had won women before. There was no reason it couldn't work for him as well.

Yet further down the hall, Erk slept fitfully, plagued with dreams of mad schemes that seemed to bubble like a witch's brew and figures in black cloaks, suspicious bits of pink hair falling forward onto the collar. He would wake up three hours later in a cold sweat and spend the next twenty minutes trying to convince himself that Serra had not learned to infiltrate dreams.

---

Hyperion was your typical wyvern. He enjoyed flying, roaming, a good piece of meat, having his scales shined and sleeping. With pride, he considered himself Heath's favorite and lorded this over the other wyverns with a haughty bark of laughter.

When Heath was at work, he expected to be fawned over. So when the young man opened the gate to the enclosure that morning, Hyperion sauntered right over and lowered his head, nudging at Heath's shoulder. In response, his caretaker sighed and gave Hyperion a very guilty look.

The wyvern was pretty sure that this boded ill. The very kind of ill that wouldn't lead to a nice afternoon of scale-shining.

"Hyperion," Heath said evenly, placing his hands on the wyvern's lowered head and looking him directly in the eye. "I have a firm belief that you understand what I say to you, so I think it's only right to tell you what's going on. Please don't bite me."

Hyperion hoped Heath understood the grumpiness in his stare. He gave a low whine, one that clearly promised nothing.

"Hyperion," Heath said again, sterner this time. The wyvern wondered whether his home was in the sort of trouble that required him to be sold to a traveling circus. "There's going to be a… well. A play."

Oh. Not a traveling circus then.

"It's a musical, actually," Heath continued. "A historical one, and the event in question, a war, involves… wyverns."

Had he had eyebrows, Hyperion's would have been raised so far that they would have detached from his face.

"The director," Heath paused to take a very deep breath. Hyperion looked around and tried to find a convenient way to escape that didn't involve just taking to the sky. Yards away, Umbriel seemed to be sneering at him. Hyperion's head drooped a bit. Heath gave him a consoling little pat.

"…historical accuracy," he was saying, but Hyperion hadn't heard the part that came between that and "the director". He figured it was important. He also figured it wasn't good for him. Umbriel's sneer became a leer.

He started paying attention again when Heath took another deep breath and shut his eyes. "Hyperion," he said. "I am so, so sorry."

The wyvern filled in the blanks, and groaned. Then Heath looked past him and said, "You too, Umbriel."

There was a long, low whine of distress from the other beast. Hyperion thought it almost made it worth it.

---

"They're depressed," Heath informed Vaida, all but storming into her office. "I really don't like this."

"You think I do?" Vaida snapped, throwing a pile of papers into the garbage.

"Then _why_?" Heath asked, running a hand through his hair in an agitated manner. From the window in Vaida's office, he saw Hyperion and Umbriel attempting to console each other. Alternatively, he thought, they might have been sizing each other up. Some days, it was hard to tell.

"It's obvious. We're cursed." Vaida grunted. She leaned back against the wall, coming dangerously close to hitting her head on the corner of a picture frame. She pinched the bridge of her nose. "After this is done, we will never speak of this incident. Never. Have I made myself perfectly clear, Heath?"

"Absolutely," he replied. "…Can I just ask one more thing, Vaida?"

"Depends on whether I want to hear it," she said.

"You probably don't," Heath admitted. "Why did you pick those two? I mean, I adore them, but they're not exactly the calmest of the bunch."

Slowly, Vaida opened her eyes and fixed him with a long, eerily calm stare. "Heath," she said. "I know what you're thinking and I did _not _pick Umbriel on the sole assumption that he would eat someone. Even though it would be a plus."

"I'm trying very hard to believe you," Heath said uncertainly. "It's just…" he looked out the window in time to see Umbriel bite a large tree branch in half.

He looked back over at Vaida and tried to tell himself that she was not, in fact, smirking. "Right," he said, turning right around. "I think I'll go find something extremely distracting to do."

---

Ninian had been right. Things had been getting steadily better at the rehearsals. The play was really starting to come along, at least according to Mark. He had told Ninian that he thought that he and the cast were slowly becoming some extremely dysfunctional family who pretended not to hate each other over the holidays.

It was a definite improvement.

On the stage, Lyndis called out Florina's name and rushed to her friend's side, then went on to tell young lordling Eliwood about how her poor grandfather was still stuck in the castle. Mark thought that Lyn was doing an amazing job. He wished Florina would stop edging away from Eliwood, though. She was half behind the curtain as it was.

His Lord Eliwood was heroic, his Serra shrewd, his Kent as loyal as a watchdog. More and more, Mark was beginning to think that this play was to be his calling, what he would be known for. It would earn him and his cast fame and fortune. Their names would be known.

Even Ninian, who had been reluctant nearly to the point of kicking and screaming, had settled into her role with ease. She mimicked the melancholy of the poor dragon girl with grace.

_Oh, yes_, Mark thought with a big grin as the enemy was defeated. The army assembled onstage and, with pause for a brief speech, prepared to storm Castle Caelin. The scene ended with a flourish. It was nearly perfect.

All too soon, the rehearsals came to an end and everyone packed up and went home.

"Goodbye, Mark," Ninian said, waving to him as she left. Nils, hands in his pockets, was already a few steps ahead of her. Mark returned the wave.

"See you later!" he called as he jogged down the street. Within fifteen minutes, he was back in his apartment, slightly tired, but happy. He opened two cans: one tuna in gravy for his cat and one chicken noodle soup for himself. When it was done, he sat down at his rickety table and pulled over the morning's paper, the one he had been too busy to read when it had arrived at seven in the morning.

The front page held nothing of interest and only a few other stories called out to him. At least until he reached the entertainment section.

He read the article once. Then he read it again. Then a third time, just because it hadn't fully sunken in. He took a deep breath, eyes wide as dinner plates. He stuffed his sleeve in his mouth to muffle his outraged cries. His cat looked up and scowled before returning to an especially savory piece of tuna.

Mark counted backwards from ten, folded the paper neatly and picked up the phone.

---

Having gone all of two weeks without receiving a rambling phone call from Mark, Ninian figured that it was about time. Without complaint, she took the phone from Nils, who pointed at it and stuck his fingers in his ears. "Be nice," Ninian whispered to him, covering the mouthpiece with her hand as she lifted it to her ear.

"Hello?" she said.

"It's _horrible_," Mark said.

"Did you have a nice evening, Mark?" she asked, pretending like he had said "hello" right back.

"It's going to _kill me_, Ninian," he said. "_He _is going to kill me. I should have known, should have seen it coming!"

"The weather's lovely," she tried feebly. "We're supposed to have light showers tomorrow, though."

"_Why_?" he whined. There was a dull thud, like someone hitting their head against the wall, or possibly a table. She winced and took a seat.

"Mark, what's wrong?" she asked. Then, "…Is it your cat?"

"No. It's much, much worse," Mark mumbled, sounding defeated. With a sigh, he asked, "Can you come over?"

---

Ninian calmly read the article in question as Mark continued to wave his arms around and ramble and occasionally point emphatically at the piece of newspaper in her hands. "Maybe it's not that bad," she said when she finished, putting the paper aside.

"Not that bad? Not that bad?" Mark's hands knotted in his hair. "He's trying to _ruin me_, Ninian!"

She frowned lightly and said, "I'm sure he's not. It's probably just a coincidence. There have been an… awful lot of coincidences concerning this play, after all."

Mark stared at her, his eyes wide and full of a wild, hunted look. "Ninian, you don't understand. Me and him, we've got history. Really, really bad history. He hates me! I hate him!" he threw his arms out and held them akimbo, looking a bit like a terrified scarecrow. "This is exactly the sort of thing he would do! It's revenge, Ninian, revenge plain and simple!"

Ninian was pretty sure that this particular revenge was neither plain nor simple. If it indeed was revenge, it was needlessly extravagant and complicated. Though, she supposed, it did make a sort of sense. "All right," she said after a contemplative moment. "Let's say it is revenge. There's really nothing you can do about it at this point, is there, Mark?"

"The best revenge—revenge against revenge, that is," Mark said through gritted teeth, "is to live well and prosper."

Ninian was sure that he did not actually believe a word that he was saying. "That's a very nice philosophy," she said anyway, fervently hoping that he managed to deny himself into it.

"Thank you," Mark said and his voice sounded strained.

"It's probably just a coincidence," Ninian said after a moment's silence.

"He hates me," Mark said. "He hates me and he's trying to _ruin _me!"

Ninian felt horrible about what she was about to ask, but she just couldn't be sure without it. "Mark," she began tentatively. "You do… know him personally, don't you?"

Mark gave her a look that spoke of deep and soulful pain, the kind that had eaten better men than him for breakfast. "Of course I do! I'm not so paranoid that I think people I don't know loathe me!" he pressed a hand to his chest and looked at her with the sad eyes.

Ninian's cough sounded a little like "my great uncle Frederick".

Mark scowled, hand leaving his chest so that he could sulkily cross his arms. "Six degrees of separation, Ninian, six degrees. Plus, Frederick's evil," he muttered before abruptly changing the subject back. "Anyway, this guy—this _vengeful bastard_-- he's practically like a brother to me. One that's mean and nasty and always glares at me when we're within fifty feet of each other, the uptight jerk!"

Ninian politely tuned out all insults to her family and simply nodded when he looked at her. "So you do know him," she said, double-checking the facts.

"We were in college together," he grudgingly admitted, taking a seat next to her. Something in his posture spoke of a weary storyteller about to begin a long, treacherous tale of deceit and heartbreak. Ninian listened attentively.

Mark breathed deeply, folding his hands together and bringing them to his chin. Silence followed. Ninian looked at her fingernails. They needed to be cut, she realized, examining them closer.

"You're waiting for me to actually tell the story, aren't you?" Mark said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. "I warn you, it's dark. Dark like the souls of certain relatives of yours who shall go unnamed."

"If you want to talk about, I'll listen," Ninian said.

Mark stared at her for a moment, as if testing the strength of her will, trying to see if she was prepared to hear his tale, pitch black though it was and about as nice as a cranky kraken. "Okay," he finally said. "He hates me, I hate him, there's another guy that hates us both, and if he's doing a play too, you might as well shoot me now." He took a deep breath, "The end."

Ninian was very quiet.

Mark too was silent.

"That, erm, that's very dark," she said at last. "It was… suspenseful."

"I'm better on paper, okay?" Mark mumbled, glancing at his knees.

Ninian gave a tiny smile and shrugged her shoulders. "I think I got the gist of it anyway."

"I'm too young to have enemies!" Mark cried, picking up a cushion from the sofa and crashing it into his face. Ninian waited a minute then gently pried it away from him.

"Come on now, no smothering," she teased gently. "Look, Mark, it's not so bad."

Having covered his face with his hands now that his pillow had been so mercilessly torn away, Mark peeked through his fingers. "How so?"

"Well, according to this, his play isn't a musical," Ninian pointed out. She retrieved the paper and skimmed the article before pointing to a sentence that confirmed what she had just said. Mark barely glanced at it.

"It's still a play, isn't it? It's theatre!" Mark sighed and stared forlornly at his wall. "He's trying to ruin me."

"We don't know that," Ninian shook her head. "Cheer up, Mark, it'll be fine."

Outwardly, Mark nodded. Inwardly, he plotted, his mind dashing through ideas as silently and stealthily as a jungle cat. _He won't get away with this,_ he thought. _I will triumph! Revenge will be mine! Innes Frelia, you are going **down**_.

Ninian got up to make some tea.

---

**To Be Continued**

---

Again, if twig-poking is in order, then let it be so. Thank you to everyone who has donated lyrics! They are lovely and cracked out and I treasure them. I may or may not sleep with a copy under my pillow.

Points to whoever can guess the identity of Mark's other, unnamed rival (aka, He Who Is Not Innes). No points to my clone, who is partially responsible here. She already got points for joining in on the crack plotting. Sparkling cider is still being offered to reviewers, of course, now with complimentary candy pilfered from a dentist's office. Huzzah!


End file.
